


Father's Wish, A

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, First Age, General, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Surprising reversals, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Mythic/Poetic, Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2002-07-23
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:23:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 87,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3745646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Disclaimer - To me, Tolkien is like one great big library. I'm just a library patron borrowing but not owning. Just a word of note: this is strictly an interpretation of Galadriel and Fëanor in Valinor. Don’t worry, they’ll be at each other’s throats soon. 

 

Year 1365 of the Valian Years of the Trees, …approximately one hundred years before the creation of the Silmarils…

Fëanor was watching her discretely. She was lovely, of course, as all of Indis’s grandchildren were. But unlike them, she had caught his attention. It was her eyes, he decided. Her eyes that were not as young as they should have been were a piercing blue-gray, a hallmark of her Telerin origin. But she had the golden, shimmering hair of the Vanyar, as well as their fine features. And although she was still a girl, her height and build suggested that she would have a warrior's stature one day.

His lips twisted as he imagined his youngest brother with a warrior for a daughter. It was laughable. Finarfin wouldn’t be able to handle it, the spineless peacekeeper that he was. 

Finwë, as noble and as wise as he ever was, for once failed to interpret the discord among his sons. He had tried to broach the topic with all three of them, but as usual, he only received a grunt from Fëanor, a nod from Fingolfin, and a smile from Finarfin. To rectify the deteriorating situation, Finwë, in what could only have been a mark of desperation, invited his entire family to his palace in Tirion. It was Finwë’s hope that a peaceful few weeks would cause the brothers to become friends again.

Fëanor, who loved his father beyond all reason, could not deny him this, even though he knew the effort was futile. He and Fingolfin would continue their subtle, silent war in attaining the loyalty of the Noldor, while Finarfin would pretend to be aloof from it, as he contemplated more serious, philosophical matters with his Vanyarin kindred. 

His mind shifted to the present again. Currently the warrior daughter was watching all of the other children play. It almost seemed that she was aloof from their childishness. But he knew that wasn’t true because he could read the envy in her eyes when she watched them pass by her without a glance.

This was evident especially when she watched Aredhel. Fëanor allowed his eyes to shift to the only other niece he had. Aredhel was dark-haired and pale-skinned, the epitome of Noldorin beauty. But her wild temperament and almost reckless disdain of rules made her a great favorite among her brothers and cousins. Indeed, if Aredhel and Artanis stood side by side, one would automatically assume Aredhel was the stronger one. But if one looked more closely, he would be able to see the power in those piercing blue-gray eyes of Artanis. To Fëanor, Aredhel was insignificant. Finwë’s House would not be strengthened through her. But through Artanis…the question was, what would Artanis bring into the line?

                His thoughts were interrupted by commotion coming from where the children were. He looked up to see Caranthir approaching Artanis with a smirk on his face. His eyes narrowing, Fëanor watched attentively.

                “Are we not good enough for you, swan girl?” Typical Caranthir. 

                The girl’s face was composed as she only arched her brow. “Why ever would you think that?” Her tone of voice was cool and polite.

                Carantir smirked again. “I suppose that’s what can only be expected from a Vanyar lover.”

                Her cool expression melted to reveal one of outrage. _Ahh, there is the firebrand_. “Don’t insult the Vanyar!”

                “The Vanyar are stooges of the Valar!” Artanis did not take this comment as her father had in previous years. Instead of walking away, Artanis jumped on Caranthir as her little fists began to hit him. Caranthir, not to be beaten by a girl, started hitting back, as their cousins formed a circle around them.

                He settled back against a tree to watch. He would interfere only if it got too violent. After all, Artanis had to defend her grandmother’s honor.

                _No, not Artanis. Noble lady is not a good name for her. Nerwen, Man-maiden. She should have been born a man_. He allowed his thoughts to swirl around in his head as they took root. _Yes, Nerwen is what_ I _will call her_.

                

                Artanis, oblivious to the interest she had generated in her fearsome uncle, only thought about the sneering face in front of her. Around them, their cousins and siblings watched on in surprise and admiration. They hadn’t known that little Artanis could fight like _that_. 

                Finrod, however, was watching this with a horrified look on his face, but as he attempted to step into the circle, Celegorm reached out and stopped him. “If you interfere, Caranthir will hold it above her always.” So Finrod reluctantly stepped back. But the chaos had attracted other adults, and now both Fingolfin and Finarfin were running towards them across the vast expanse of Finwë’s lawn. 

                Fingolfin stepped inside the circle and pulled apart the two children. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. 

No one spoke.

                “Artanis, who started this?” asked Finarfin sternly.

                “I did,” she said with a hint of pride. The corner of Fingolfin’s lips tugged up in the barest form of a smile while Finarfin looked just as horrified as Finrod. Without another word, he shooed the other children away. 

                Finarfin gave his daughter a disappointed glance. “Artanis, you must apologize to your cousin.”

                Her jaw dropped open. Apologize for defending the honor of her grandmother? “Father, I can’t do that. He threw the first insult!”

                “It doesn’t matter who started it. We are guests in my father’s home, and it was disrespectful of you to raise your hand against your cousin.”

                She looked up pleadingly to Fingolfin. "But I thought you said it was important to defend your honor!” Fingolfin, unable to interfere in Finarfin’s discipline, only stayed silent, his gray eyes regretful. Artanis looked away, feeling very betrayed. But suddenly, she caught sight of a tall figure watching them. _Fëanor_. He was standing a little ways away under a tree, unnoticed in all the commotion. Caught by his fire-bright eyes, something in them caused defiance to flow through her. “No father, I won’t apologize.”

                Finarfin’s eyes glinted. “Daughter, it is my command.” She gulped inaudibly. Finarfin never called her daughter unless he was truly upset with her. And since her father’s seldom-seen wrath was not something she wished to bring upon herself, she gave in. 

                “Fine. I am sorry Caranthir, for hitting you. And winning.” She threw that in with a smirk of her own, and then she walked away. 

                

Later than evening, she made her way to the rooftops. When the lights of Telperion and Laurelin would mingle, it would be her favorite time of the day, and she always liked to be outside for it. But when she got to the roof, she saw that HE was already there. And although she had no way of knowing how, she knew that Fëanor could sense her presence. Artanis considered leaving, but then again, she wasn’t going to miss her favorite time of the day just because Fëanor got here first. Making up her mind, she walked over and stood near him. “Good evening, Uncle.” 

                “Good evening to you, Nerwen” he replied. She blinked at his use of her mother-name but did not remark on it. Instead, the two of them stood side by side, watching the light blend together. They were silent for a long while until Fëanor spoke again.

“I have heard that you are a great swimmer,” he said casually. 

She inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “My mother’s people are seafarers.”

He gave her a sardonic glance. “The water must be in your blood, then.” He looked back toward the horizon. “I saw you two years ago, when I was in Alqualondë. You were racing against a rather unworthy challenger. Do you still compete?”

“Sometimes, when I have the time. But mostly I have my studies and lessons.” She quieted then, as she considered the situation. Here she was, having a conversation with Fëanor, of all Elves, about _swimming_. It was very bizarre.

His beautiful lips quirked into a smile. “Sounds very boring.”

“I was really good. No one beat me, not even my grandfather Olwë.” She felt strangely comfortable in his presence. She knew that her father and her Uncle Fingolfin did not have good relations with the son of Miriel, and she knew that Fëanor did not consider Finarfin and Fingolfin his true brothers. But none of this seemed to matter on the rooftop.

“Then I think you need more talented opponents.” The flash of pleasure that surged through her surprised her. After all, what did his approval have to do with anything? But she wasn’t able to deny that she was happy he thought so highly of her skill. He was Fëanor, after all. 

                He was speaking again. “I am sorry about this afternoon.”

                She looked slightly confused. What did he have to do with it? “It was my fault, my lord. I was the one who began the fight with Caranthir.” She sighed in frustration. “My father says I need to control my temper, that I shouldn’t let it get the best of me.”

He looked amused. “If you hit Caranthir, he undoubtedly deserved it.” Artanis felt better after hearing those words. If the father of that beast agreed with her, then she had no need to feel guilty. Fëanor continued. “Giving in does not always gain you respect. As a matter of fact, you can often gain respect by not backing down.”

“I wish my father would understand that.” Finarfin was too attached to the ideas of peace, and he always preferred to maintain harmony, a position that had often caused scorn from Fëanor and frustration from Fingolfin. “And I do apologize, for I was disrespectful to Grandfather.”

He waved her apology away. “Nerwen, there is no need to apologize. Your defiance wasn’t effective today because you were in a weak position, one with no options. After all, disobeying Finarfin and bringing shame to his name is certainly not a choice. But in better circumstances, with a stronger position, a well-managed display of rebellion may be quite successful.”

                They stayed on the rooftops for a while longer, until Telperion was fully in bloom. Then Fëanor walked her to her rooms and bid her goodnight. But as Artanis rolled around in her bed later that night, she considered her uncle’s words. _A well-managed display of rebellion may be quite successful_ … The words were slightly seditious, Artanis knew. But her heart hammered with the conviction that they were right. 

As sleep began overtaking her senses, she dreamt of fire.

 

                The next morning found Fëanor riding with his two brothers. Finwë had bluntly told all three of them to go outside and spend affectionate, brotherly time with each other. And who could refuse a request like that? So they decided to go riding around Tirion, as they had when they were younger. And if Fëanor were honest with himself, he would admit that Fingolfin and Finarfin were not that bad. It was just that it was difficult for him to see them as anything other than the Sons of Indis. Nevertheless, the three of them peacefully and uneventfully rode around Tirion. They spoke of their children and wives especially. 

When Finarfin mentioned yesterday’s incident, Fëanor expected Finarfin’s outburst of pride over his daughter’s prowess. So he was incredibly surprised – and disappointed – to discover that it was an apology on the behalf of Artanis. “Artanis is impetuous at times, and she should have learned to control her temper by now.” 

Fëanor didn’t accept his brother’s apology, and his respect for his brother dimmed for making it. Such a temper might have benefited Nerwen, but if Finarfin had his way, it would be trained out of her. In the end, she would be a doormat pacifist like her father. “Just as I have already told Nerwen, Caranthir deserved it.”

Fingolfin and Finarfin exchanged looks at the use of Artanis’s mother-name. But they did not comment on it. Fingolfin laughed instead. “I never knew little Artanis was so strong.”

Finarfin allowed himself a tiny smile. “Yes, she is surprisingly strong.” The subject shifted then, to other matters, but it never completely left the minds of either Finarfin or Fëanor.

 

After the events of yesterday, Artanis had become rather popular. All her cousins had taken greater interest in her, especially Fingon. He had decided that Artanis would learn sparring from him. Even Aredhel had spoken to her today. Eärwen had indulgently smiled at her daughter when she asked for permission to go riding with Celegorm and Turgon. 

“So you have made friends, Artanis?” said her mother, the beautiful silver tresses framing a slender face. Many times Finarfin would call his wife a mermaid of the sea, so lovely was Eärwen.

She had answered carefully. “Yes, mother, I have.” But she didn’t tell her that the best time she had was talking with Fëanor. How Eärwen would react to _that_ Artanis didn’t know.

But now, back at Finwë’s palace, she sought HIM. 

She found him on the rooftop again, just as the light from the Two Trees was mingling. 

He had been waiting for her, she knew. She couldn’t explain it, but she could feel it. “Good evening, Uncle.” 

His voice was quiet and at peace. “And good evening to you, Nerwen.”

No words were exchanged as they stood in companionable silence, enjoying the time as Telperion came into brilliance. Then, just like last night, he escorted her back to her room and bade her goodnight. 

 

The remaining days passed thusly, with both Artanis and Fëanor spending the mornings and afternoons occupied with family. But each evening, when Laurelin was waning and Telperion was waxing, they would spend it together. It was an unspoken agreement, one that neither would ever admit to having. She had lost all nervousness in his presence, and she found that she could speak to him about many things. He was very well learned, and he would listen carefully when Artanis spouted forth numerous complaints, especially about the differences in the linguistics of the Teleri and the Noldor. But, as always, their favorite subject was swimming. He seemed very interested in her passion for it, and this made her glad, for her parents certainly never evinced as much interest in it. 

At times, she found it disturbing how easy it was for her to tell Fëanor everything. She could locate no single thing in their conversations that explained their unusual rapport. It was just there, with no words to describe it. It fed and nourished her ravenous spirit, and it gave her a sense of belonging and comradeship.

Unfortunately, the day of her impending departure was looming closer on her horizon. Fëanor had bluntly told her that the only reason he had stayed as long as he had was simply because he found her intriguing.

Strange, that Fëanor found her intriguing. But as was Fëanor's style, he hadn't told her why. And as was her style, she hadn't asked. Yet she found that she was beginning to understand his unspoken thoughts, to hear the hidden meanings in his words. It was a powerful ability that she had picked up, one only shared by Nerdanel, and previously, Miriel.

Thus, on the day before she would be leaving for Alqualondë, she hunted out Fëanor long before their appointed meeting time. She found him in Finwë's library, browsing through a rather worn book. She crept in quietly and stood near the doorway, watching him as he attainted the deepest level of concentration. It was a remarkable sight. The fire from the hearth seemed to embrace him, as its lights flickered in his dark hair. His eyes were feverishly bright as they regarded the manuscript that was clenched in his hands. How long she stood there she did not know, but time had stopped for her. She was concentrating just as hard on Fëanor, except she was studying him while he was studying the book. 

But soon he did sense her presence, and she watched as awareness came back to Fëanor. The transformation was incredible. Now he was normal again, not some sort of demigod of fire.

_Fëanor is not normal_ , a voice whispered in her head. _He is almost god-like_. She shook off these thoughts as she greeted him. "I am sorry to have disturbed your solitude, Uncle." 

He gave her a smile that almost seemed feral in the firelight. "If you had disturbed me, you would have known it." He beckoned her forward, to the seat in front of his. "Perhaps you can give me your opinion.” His long fingers gestured to the manuscript in his hand. “Tell me, what is this?”

“A treatise, written from the days when there was no societal order, during the early days of the Eldar.” A rather obvious question.

He shook his head, however. “I was not referring to the subject matter, but the manner in which it was written.”

Artanis nodded in understanding. “It is written in the script that Rumíl himself devised. Our written language.” She sought to understand what his point was.

“Yes, and it is quite brilliant. Imagine, having to devise written language. A most difficult task.” His dark eyes probed her in that fearsome way of his.

“But you are unhappy with it. You dislike its imperfections.” 

Fëanor looked back down to the book. “Rumíl’s work is good, but it is not flawless. There is always room for improvement.” He stroked the page under his hand. “Knowledge is the greatest treasure that we have. It is our responsibility to ensure that it is preserved properly. Rumil’s script leaves too much room for possible misinterpretations. If the words for duck and seabird are confused, then will history not be altered in our understanding of it?” Artanis nodded but kept silent, as she watched the long fingers stroke the letters of the book. “And if history is altered, it shall become a lie.”

Fëanor was looking to debate this point. She would comply with his wishes then. “But we are Eldar. History remains in our memories.”

He waved that point away. “Memory is deceptive, Nerwen. It changes with time. As we go through life, we pick up more perceptions, and our views on certain events and ideas change. Our judgment becomes colored, and when we do remember, our mind colors our memories, showing us only what we want to remember.”

“But then could it also not be argued that someone who transcribes history writes with bias? No matter how precise the language is?” She had hit a point, she knew, because he regarded her more thoughtfully now, his eyes displaying some measure of respect.

“A good rebuttal, Nerwen. I expected no less from you.” He gave her a slight smile. “But in answer to your question, yes, a historian’s writing can never be completely impartial. But we can strive for it by improving what faults we can.” He rose and placed the book back on the shelf. “Come, Nerwen. I believe they are serving the evening meal about now.”

She followed him out, considering the words and the man who had spoken them. Fëanor would be undertaking the change of language himself, from what she had been able to glean from the conversation. Was there nothing he could not do? As they strode down a well-lit hallway, they passed by a large mirror in the wall. She sighed internally as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Among the predominantly dark-haired Noldor, she stood out like a vegetable in a basket of fruits. Yet again she found herself wishing for Aredhel’s dark looks. Unconsciously, she began to braid her hair while walking.

“You should leave it down, Nerwen. It would be unfortunate to hide such beautiful hair.” Fëanor looked down at her in mid-stride.

“Do you really think it’s beautiful?”

“I consider you lovely.” 

Lovely. Warmth filled her as she turned the word over in her mind. Fëanor didn’t lie to her, just as she didn’t lie to him. If he said she was lovely, then she was. And she had never been lovely before. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Fëanor shook his head. “There is no need to thank me. I am simply stating a fact, not giving praise.” Artanis smiled ruefully. Leave it to Fëanor to put it like that.

 

                Surprisingly, Fëanor could still be astonished, the jaded cynic that he was. Little Nerwen had cleverly debated with him, with as much skill as her father had years before. Apparently Finarfin had passed along whatever few good qualities he had to his daughter. It was a shame she would probably end up living in Taniquetil as a secluded philosopher. Finarfin would be happy, at any rate.

                And although Fëanor would be reluctant to admit it to anyone, even to his father and wife, he was fond of the little princess. He conceded that it was a sort of detached fondness, something like an academic fascination, but it was still fondness. He definitely would not be admitting it anytime soon. Yet the princess had warmed her way into his company, and he did not feel her presence as an intrusion in his solitude. 

                And when he had said that Nerwen was lovely, he had meant it. He did not desire her in any way, except perhaps in the way a parent would a child, or a teacher would a student, to protect and raise her in his own image. He had always regretted the fact that no girl-child had blessed his line. Not a day would pass by that Fëanor wouldn’t think of his mother, and he had hoped that perhaps the visage of his mother would continue on. And while he loved his sons greatly, well, none of them even remotely looked like Miriel. None had even inherited her personality, save Maglor, whose gentleness was reminiscent of Miriel’s. 

                He found it odd, then, that Nerwen, who in no way shared any blood with Miriel, so resembled her, in temperament if not in looks. His mother and niece shared the same quiet firmness, the strong, capable hands, and the ability to pierce the hearts of others. 

                He sipped from the glass of cool water in his hands. As he stood in the balcony of his room, his thoughts shifted to another room in another wing of the palace. It was the room of his childhood, the place that he had grown up in. He closed his eyes as memories of his mother assaulted his mind. Miriel, coming in to wake him up. Miriel, coming in to kiss his hurts away. Miriel, playing with him. Miriel, helping him with his penmanship. _Miriel, Miriel, Miriel_ …He remembered that he had hidden some of his mother’s possessions under his bed after she had forsaken her body. That box still remained there. Perhaps he should pay a visit to his old room, a place he had not been to in many years.

                Fëanor set the glass on a table and slipped on a pair of shoes. But just as he was about to leave, Nerdanel slipped into the room, and once again, as he had for the many years he had been married to her, he simply sighed at the sight of her. 

                All thoughts of Miriel, his room, the box, and Nerwen vanished. 

 

                They left for Alqualondë early in the morning. And while part of Artanis was glad to be returning home, another part of her would miss Tirion, would miss Fëanor. He had solemnly kissed her goodbye and had only told her to never give up her swimming. She had just as solemnly promised not too. Finarfin, on the other hand, was unabashedly relieved at the fact that they would be leaving Tirion behind. And although he had not explicitly said so, he was glad that they were leaving Fëanor behind as well. 

                During the ride, Finarfin called his daughter toward the back of the procession. “Come ride with me, Artanis. I would have some words with you.”

                She obeyed and trotted back to her father, leaving behind Aegnor. “Yes, Father?”

                “We have not had a chance to speak recently, you and I.” She felt a prickle of unease. “The past few days have been hectic, as we have all be preoccupied with other members of the family.” He turned his head to look at her. “But I thought to take this opportunity to claim your attention, for once we arrive at home, your grandfather will undoubtedly monopolize your time.” This was said ruefully, for Olwë had made no secret of the fact that he enjoyed his only granddaughter’s company the most. 

                She gave her father a slight smile but made no response. He continued on. “Artanis, I want you to know that your mother and I encourage you to meet and befriend with many types of people. It is important for you to learn the views of others in order to strengthen your own. But Artanis, you must be wary of some people more than others.”

                “You mean Uncle Fëanor?” She looked at her father evenly.

                Finarfin nodded. “Yes, Fëanor.” He halted his horse, and Artanis did the same. Finarfin reached over and clasped the smaller hands of his daughter. “Artanis, understand this: Fëanor is my brother, and I love him. But I do not like him. He is a dangerous man, attractive and charming. It is easy to be swept away by his demeanor.”

                She squeezed Finarfin’s hands. “I know Father, but I will be careful.”

                “No, Artanis.” For the first time that she could remember, Finarfin looked afraid. “Please, you must be extremely cautious when you deal with him. He will draw you in. He will win you. And then he will break your trust and hurt you.”

                Artanis examined her father carefully. “Father, has he hurt…you?”

                He smiled at her sadly. “In more ways than you can ever know.” His blue eyes regarded her own with an infinite grief that she knew she would never completely understand. _He looks like a man who has already lost the battle_. The voice that was speaking in her head was the treacherous one, and swiftly she silenced it. 

                She brought his hands to her lips and kissed them dutifully. “Father, I have heard your words, and I have taken them to heart.”

                He patted her head. “I hope for both of our sakes that you keep them there.” 

 

 

Some Notes:

-          Since this time period is vague in the _Silmarillion_ and in the other books, I’ve tried to keep from having a lot of specific, factual details.

-          However, I will point out that I have chosen to keep Orodreth as a son of Finarfin, which will later mean that Gil-galad will remain as the son of Fingon. I know that in canon it is stated that the original house of Finarfin was incorrect, and that Orodreth was really a grandson of Finarfin, but I’ve chosen to stay with what the _Silmarillion_ says. Maybe one day….

-          To be clear on the many names of our favorite Noldorin heroine, I’ll clarify. Artanis is her father-name, and it means “noble lady.” Nerwen is her mother-name, and it means “man-maiden.” The name that we are most familiar with, Galadriel, means “garlanded in radiance,” or some variation. However, Galadriel is really her epessë, an after-name bestowed upon her by Celeborn, who would be her lover later on. So it would be incorrect to have her addressed as Galadriel in Valinor, since that name hasn’t been created yet.

-          Rumil created the first written language of the Elves, although Fëanor refined it greatly. I won’t go into the details now, but language would become a weapon between Galadriel and Fëanor. 

-          All Elven languages have a common root, but over time, each tribe developed their own dialects. The Vanyar retained the most ancient form of the language, High Quenya. The Noldor would also speak Quenya, but pronounciation was different, as well as certain linguistic elements. The Telerin tongue was different enough to be considered a separate language (it is stated in the _Silmarillion_ that Finarfin had to learn the language of the Teleri). Sindarin is similar to the Telerin tongue (this is due to the fact that the Teleri tribe was together longer, since they left Middle-Earth last). Sindarin was spoken by the Telerin Elves who remained behind on Arda.

 

 

 

And an acknowledgment – I read a story a friend recommended to me a long time ago, and it detailed the relationship between Darth Vader and Princess Leia (I’m not really a Star Wars fan, but the story was very good). I can’t remember the name or the author, but when I decided to begin writing about Fëanor, I remembered it and used it for inspiration, as well as ideas to form my own relationship for Galadriel and Fëanor (as scary as it it to imagine, you can really make parallels between Fëanor and Darth Vader, and to a lesser extent, Galadriel and Princess Leia). So whoever you are, thank you for acting as my unwitting muse!


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

Year 1381 of the Valian Years of the Trees

"Mother, I don’t see why it’s necessary." The ever noble and wise Finarfin was beginning to sound like a petulant child. Indis had surprised him by suddenly arriving at his doorstep in Alqualondë with the demand that Artanis accompany her to Taniquetil. 

                Indis glared at her youngest — and most favorite — son. "She has had enough of a Noldorin and Telerin upbringing. Now it is time for her Vanyarin one. She does descend from Irinel of the Vanyar, sister to Ingwë herself," huffed Indis. "Just because her House is Noldor doesn’t mean she should forget her Vanyarin roots!" 

                He ran a weary hand through his golden hair. "Of course she shouldn’t forget her Vanyarin roots," he said calmly as he tried to pacify his mother. "Artanis should learn of all her heritage. But she can learn much of it from me." He gave his mother a pointed look. "After all, I know something of the Vanyar myself." That was an understatement. Before his marriage to the Telerin princess, he had dwelt among his mother’s kindred for quite awhile. It was there that his deep loyalty to the Valar took root, as well as his more pacifistic leanings. "Besides, why do you only want to take Artanis along? Why not any of my sons?"

                His mother shrugged elegantly. "Because none of my other grandchildren have inherited anything of the Vanyar, other than Artanis and Finrod. And all Finrod has is golden hair." Indis picked at her skirt. "Artanis though, is something different." She looked back up. "Besides, Ingwë wishes to speak to her." At this, Finarfin raised his eyebrows. The High King wanted to speak to _his_ daughter? The High King had never even seen her. What business would Ingwë have with Artanis? He must have let his suspicions show, for Indis patted his hand reassuringly. "Come now, little one. My uncle stopped eating little Noldorin princesses long before he reached Aman."

                "Well, I suppose we could all make the trip up there," conceded Finarfin reluctantly.

                At this Indis laughed. "I’m afraid that this invitation is extended to Artanis alone, although the rest of you would be welcome later."

                "She can’t go by herself!" said Finarfin, the hints of panic beginning to appear on his face.

                The queen rolled her eyes. "She’s going with me." She narrowed her eyes at her son. "Or don’t you trust me?"

                He waved his hands in the air. "No, no, of course I trust you. You’re my mother! But Artanis has never gone anywhere without me. She won’t be able to handle this sudden separation."

The queen leaned back in her chair and gazed at her son with consideration. "Is it Artanis who won’t be able to handle the separation, or you?" When Finarfin didn’t answer, she continued. "You have held on to her long enough, my son. It is time she chose her own path now."

                Finarfin’s blue eyes were anguished as he met the clear gaze of his mother. "She is so very dear to me. I am afraid that when she does choose a path, it will lie far away from mine."

                "You can’t prevent her, if that is her fate," Indis reminded him gently. Finarfin nodded glumly. "Good," she said briskly. "Now summon my granddaughter." Finarfin rose and went to the balcony, and, after catching the eye of his daughter who was seated in the garden below, signaled her to come to up.

                Artanis, of course, was very prompt, for she arrived within seconds. Seeing both her father and grandmother seated with grave expressions on their fair faces, she dipped into a polite curtsy. "Good afternoon, Father, Grandmother."

                Indis held open her arms. "Is that how you greet your grandmother?" She gave Finarfin a mock glare. "What has your father been teaching you?" she demanded. With a smile of glee, Artanis ran into Indis’s outstretched arms. 

                "It is so very good to see you, Grandmother. We didn’t know you were to visit."

                "Yes, she surprised me too," muttered Finarfin, the barest hints of sarcasm shading his words.

                Indis gave Artanis a kiss on her brow. "I’m glad you didn’t inherit your father’s tendency to mutter. It is something that Finwë has unfortunately passed along." Both women shared slight smiles at that. "Now, the reason I came all the way down here is to see you, Artanis."

                "Me?" asked Artanis curiously.

                Indis nodded. "As I was telling your father, I think that perhaps it is time you accompanied me to Taniquetil." She smiled at her golden-haired grandchild. 

                Artanis felt eagerness well within her. "Yes, I would love to go." She had never been to Taniquetil before. It was said to be the most beautiful place in all of Aman. But then she looked up at her father guiltily, "That is, with Father’s permission, of course."

                Finarfin looked like he was about to refuse, but after a quick glance in his mother’s direction, he nodded. "You have my blessing, my dear." He forced himself to smile at the joy on his daughter’s face. 

                Indis clapped her hands. "Excellent. Now I must consult with Eärwen about things Artanis will need to take with her." She rose and departed to seek her daughter-in-law. 

                Finarfin was left alone with Artanis. "Well, my dear, it appears that you finally get to meet your Vanyarin kindred."

                "What are they like?" she asked with curiosity.

                He considered this. "They are different from the Noldor and Teleri. Very close to the Maiar they are, and often they participate in the councils of the Valar." His eyes grew distant. "They know many things, the Vanyar. They are wise and just. And they are powerful." His voice had dropped to a whisper, and Artanis could hear the reverence in her father’s voice. His hazy eyes cleared as he focused on his daughter. "They remember the beginning, even though we have forgotten."

                Artanis blinked. When she had asked her father what they were like, she had been hoping for more general information, not philosophical wonderings. But then again, this was Finarfin. “I will keep that in mind, Father.” She brightened. “I have to go tell Grandfather Olwë! We’ll miss out on our daily swimming practices, but that will give him time to get in shape.”

                He almost spilled his drink. “Artanis, I wouldn’t say that within your grandfather’s hearing distance.”

                “Yes, I’ll be careful of that, Father,” she promised solemnly. With one last smile, she bounded out of the room. Finarfin remained, as he stared unseeingly at the embroidered carpet at his feet.

 

                One week later, Artanis stood in the lovely, airy halls of Taniquetil. Indis stood by her side, as she allowed her granddaughter to take stock of her surroundings. The journey to the mountain had been fun, if a bit tiring. Indis was an avid sportswoman, and while Artanis had no rivals in the water, on horseback was a completely different matter. But now, Artanis found that all her tiredness had vanished the moment she had set foot within the hallowed mountain. All around her, golden-haired Elves scurried to and fro, their laughs and smiles filling the large hallways. 

                The Vanyar were certainly different from their other kindred. Physically, they were taller and better built, even the women. Like Indis, they were strong of body. The slenderness so common in the Noldor and the Teleri were not evident, and for once, Artanis felt at home. 

She felt a touch at her shoulder. “Come, Artanis. I will take you to my own home, where I lived before I wedded your grandfather.” Indis led her through several corridors until they emerged a large open area. There was a small pond in the middle. On the other side of the pond, a lovely white house was situated comfortably in the rock. As they approached the house, a smiling, golden-haired man ran out. Indis let go of Artanis’s hand and flew toward the man. They embraced and began talking quickly. Artanis stood to the side politely, as she waited to be introduced.

                “Artanis, this is my father, Anthön. You saw him once, when you were very young.”

                He smiled down at her kindly. “You probably don’t remember little one, but you poured hot soup onto my lap.” 

                Artanis’s face began to turn red. “I did that?”

                “Oh, it was actually my fault. Irinel, my wife, warned me that you wouldn’t like that vegetable soup, but I insisted on feeding you anyway.” He chuckled at the memory, while Indis hid a smile behind her hand. He held out his hand. “Let me take you inside, Artanis. Irinel and I are pleased that you will be staying here with us. We’ve prepared a room for you, and we hope you find it comfortable.” Anthön led her and Indis inside, where three other golden-haired elves, one man and two women, awaited them.

                One of the women ran toward the door and embraced Indis. “Daughter, could you be any slower in getting here?”

                The other golden-haired woman laughed. “Irinel, she came early!” The elves began chattering with each other, and Artanis took the opportunity to examine the others. The one who had embraced Indis was Irinel, and it was obvious that they were mother and daughter. The other woman was similar in height, except she didn’t seem as sturdy as Indis or Irinel. The man was as golden-haired as his companions, except his eyes were a deep, piercing blue. Something about him made Artanis stare harder at him. He noticed her stare, and he threw a smile in her direction.

                “Indis, you didn’t introduce us to your granddaughter!” Indis pulled Artanis over.

                “You have already met my father, little one. This is my mother,” she said, pointing to Irinel. “And those two are my uncle and my aunt, Ingwë and Suriya.” 

                The High King and the High Queen! She gulped inaudibly and she stammered, “It is an honor.”

                Ingwë placed a hand on her shoulder. “All you alright, child? You have gone pale.”

                “I’m a bit overwhelmed, High King.” This elicited chuckles from the others in the room.

                The king nodded solemnly. “Yes, my sister has that effect. She often overwhelms me as well.” An apple flew in the king’s direction. Ingwë caught it and presented it to Artanis. “And what is this ‘High King’ nonsense? I am a grandfather of sorts, but you may call me Ingwë if you wish.”

                Ingwë was too familiar for her, so she decided to stick with grandfather. “Grandfather then.” Ingwë smiled broadly and led her to a small dining room, where a meal was laid out. All sat down as Anthön went to get a dish from the stove. The king patted the seat beside him, indicating that Artanis should sit at his side. “My brother-in-law has cooked the evening meal for us.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear conspiratorially. “It has been a while since he has last stepped into the kitchen, so if something tastes funny, don’t let it show.”

                “I heard that!” came an indignant voice from the kitchen. Anthön stepped out bearing a bowl of some sort of stew. “When was the last time you cooked, Brother?” Anthön rolled his eyes at Artanis. “Since he sits on the throne all day, he rarely does domestic duties anymore.”

                The king threw a challenging glance in his direction. “I’m sure I can still cook better than you.” Anthön still looked disbelieving, so Ingwë continued. “We can resolve this easily. We’ll have a cooking contest tomorrow – and Artanis can be the judge!”

                “You have to be at court tomorrow,” Suriya reminded him pointedly.

                The king waved that away. “I can take a day off.”

                Irinel smirked. “You can’t take a day off. You’re king.”

                “I am High King. If I take a day off, who is going to order me otherwise?” 

                Artanis listed to the banter incredulously. In all her dreams, she had never imagined Ingwë and his family acting so…silly. And from their attitudes, this seemed like a common occurrence. Chuckling softly to herself, she applied herself to her meal. And regardless of what Ingwë had said, the meal was very delicious, if a bit spicy. Indis, on the other hand, ate like a person starved.

                “Don’t they feed you down in Tirion?” laughed the Vanyar queen.

                Anthön shook his head sadly. “Those Noldor have delicate tastebuds. Although the Teleri are even worse. They cannot stomach any peppers.”

                The king kept piling more food onto Artanis’s plate. “Eat up, little one. You are too skinny. By the time you leave, you will be more healthy.” Artanis stared at the high pile of food on her plate. She did not think she could stomach it but Ingwë reassured her. “Don not worry. You will manage, even if the food could be better.” This was said with a mock-sneer thrown in his brother-in-law’s direction.

                Halfway through the meal, Ingwë asked about Finarfin. “How is he doing? It has been many years since I beheld your father last.”

                “He is well.”

                Indis interrupted. “And completely worried. He did not want to part with Artanis.”

                Irinel chuckled. “All fathers are the same.” She turned toward Artanis. “When you get back, tell your father you fell in love and wish to get married as soon as possible. He will be horrified and will go into a fit of panic.” 

                Suriya nodded in agreement. “Fathers of daughters need a swift kick every now and then.”

                “I never had to go through that, since I only have a son.” Ingwë looked pleased with himself.

                “Who ended up marrying a Maia, the Fire-maiden, no less!” finished Indis.

                Anthön narrowed his eyes at the king. “Anyway, even though you did not have a daughter, you certainly had no problem harassing all the young men who tried to court Indis, and later on, your granddaughter Meril.”

                “I did not harass them!” When all the others looked at him skeptically, Ingwë hurried to defend himself. “I was only looking out for their better interests.” Next to him, unable to hold back her mirth, Artanis gave into it, dissolving into laughter at the table. 

                The banter continued into the night, and Artanis completely forgot about home.

 

The next day, Ingwë led Artanis on a tour of Taniquetil. He showed her the throne room, the gardens, and he even took her to Manwë and Varda’s house, at the very top of the mountain. The Valar had been very kind to Artanis, especially Manwë. He extracted a promise out of Artanis to go riding with him one day. But the best part of the day had been the Snow Lake, a large lake at the base of the mountain. It was called the Snow Lake because the glaciers that melted on Taniquetil’s peak fed the lake. She spent a peaceful afternoon swimming in the cool waters. In the evening, the king introduced her to his two grandsons, Ethilian and Severn. They were younger than she was, but already they were taller and stronger. Feeling pity at Artanis’s inexperience with sports other than swimming, they promised to teach her. 

She continued thusly for a month, spending her days swimming and riding with the other Vanyar her age. They seemed content to welcome her among them, and while their speech was more ancient than the Quenya she was used to, she managed well enough. Ingwë taught her much about ruling, and Suriya taught Artanis dancing and music. However, her most influential teacher was actually Arien, Ingil’s wife. She appeared one day at Irinel’s house with the request that Artanis visit the Gardens of Vaná with her. 

Arien was very tall, taller than Elven woman were wont. She had dark-hair, and her eyes were dark as well, although they were fire-bright. Her skin was golden-hued like her Vanyarin husband, very unlike the other Maiar, whose visages were much paler. They would stroll in the Gardens, where Arien and Ingil dwelt. Here, Arien would collect the dews of Laurelin – indeed, she was the only one who could do so, as Laurelin was very hot. “I have the ability to withstand great heat and fire,” she had explained to Artanis.

The Fire-maiden instructed Artanis in the arts of magic and enchantment. “Although you don’t have any Maiar blood, you will find that you still have the ability to form more basic magic.”

Arien was generally a cheerful, kind person, but when Melian’s name would be mentioned in conversation, Arien would grow sad. Artanis had asked whether they were sisters, and Arien had given her a rather confusing explanation. “The Maiar are similar to the Valar in that we are all creations of Eru’s thoughts. There are no true siblings. Indeed, although Vaná and Yavanná are sisters, they are only sisters because they chose to be sisters. In a similar way, Melian and I are sisters. And I miss her very much. But she has chosen to bond with an Elf, just as I have. The only difference is that Ingil is here, while Elwë Singollo is on Arda.” The subject had become too depressing for Arien, and so Artanis had hurriedly changed the subject. 

 

                When she returned to Taniquetil, she found many letters waiting for her. Most were from Finarfin, although her mother had sent her a few, as well as some of her brothers. She spent an entire day composing replies. When she came to Finarfin’s letters, she wrote very gingerly, as she didn’t want to admit that she was having that good of a time. When she finally did have free time, she spent her time exploring the area around Taniquetil. During one of her many wanderings, she came across a spring, hidden in the deep forest. She would come here once a day, as it was very secluded and private. 

                But one day, she went there only to find that someone else was already there. Slightly irritated that someone had found her secret spot, she approached the spring – only to discover that the person happened to be a very golden Vanyarin male bathing. Generally, Elves didn’t care about nudity, but Artanis had never seen a nude man before. Which was why, in her hurry to flee, she tripped over a tree’s surfaced root. The noise caused the other elf is turn in surprise, which caused him to lose his footing on the rock he was standing on and fall backwards into the water. 

When Artanis looked up, the elf – still nude – was looking down at her with concern. “Are you alright?”

Standing up with as much dignity as she could muster, she nodded. “I am very well, thank you.” Brushing her skirt free of leaves, she inclined her head. “I am sorry to intrude. If you will excuse me, I will leave you to your bathing.”

“Wait,” he said as he grabbed a hold of her hand. “No need to run away. You can use this spring too.” He grinned at her, and she was startled to see that his eyes were a bright, piercing green – an uncommon color not only in the Vanyar, but in the Noldor and Teleri as well. “Besides, you look like a good conversationalist.”

She looked uncomfortable. “I generally would not mind, except I have not yet developed the habit of conversing with naked people.” This was said a bit defensively.

He flashed her another disarming grin. “Habits come from experiences.” He examined her more closely. “Actually, you look very young. Not yet reached your majority?” Receiving a nod from Artanis, he nodded in understanding. “Oh, well, I understand. Sorry,” he said unsympathetically. “Just give me a minute to dress myself, and then you can converse with me.” He withdrew to the edge of the spring, where he had left his clothes.

Alone again, she slapped her forehead with her hand. _How embarrassing!_ _He will probably turn out to be a friend of someone I know_. Worse yet, a friend of Finrod. She would never hear the end of it from Finrod. And Finarfin! She flinched when she thought of what her father would say.

A rustling to her side alerted her to the approach of the elf again, except this time he was fully dressed. “Still waiting for me, good! I was afraid you would have left!” He began to lead her onto a path that would take them back to Taniquetil. “I have not seen you around before, and your hair is not exactly the standard golden color. Who are you?”

“I am Artanis, a granddaughter of Indis.” The elf smirked, ever so slightly, but she caught it just the same.

“You are Finrod’s sister?” _Oh Valar! I was right! Curse me for my prediction!_ She nodded. “I am Glorfindel, a friend of Finrod and Turgon.”

She flinched. Although she had never met Glorfindel, she had heard the name many times from Finrod. “You are Vanyar?” she asked, in an effort to hide her mortification.

He nodded, as he wrung out his golden hair. “The breeze will dry it,” he said absently. Focusing on her again, he continued. “Not fully Vanyar, but more Vanyar that you.” At her confused look, he elaborated. “My father is Vanyar, but my mother is Noldor.”

“That is most unusual. Men of the Vanyar rarely marry outside their own kind.” This was certainly true, for although many Noldorin men had taken Vanyar wives, only one Vanya man had ever taken a Noldorin bride – the parents of Ar-Kaliel, a famed huntress and a good friend to Maedhros. Which probably meant – 

“Oh yes,” he said cheerfully, as he correctly interpreted her thoughts. “I am Ar-Kaliel’s younger brother.” _Ai, could this get any worse?_ “And it certainly is a good thing that I ran into you, for I actually was going to seek you out tonight.” He flashed a sly look at her. “Although I would have been fully dressed when you met me.” He playfully tugged on some of her hair. “I’ll be accompanying you back to Alqualondë at the end of next week!” _It always gets worse_ , she decided.

 

The following week approached swiftly, and Artanis began looking forward to being home. Thanks to Ethilian, she now had many more sparring skills, and under Ingwë’s own guidance, her skill with the bow improved greatly. Now it would be easier when she fought with her brothers. 

Indis chose to remain behind with her family a while longer. Content with allowing Glorfindel to take her back home, Indis kissed her granddaughter goodbye, with only a warning to beware of Glorfindel’s charming personality. The high king came to say goodbye as well, and as a parting gift, he presented Artanis with a bow - made from the bark of a yew tree, as Ingwë had told her proudly. 

The journey home was more fun than she imagined, as Glorfindel turned out to be a charming companion. Although he never mentioned the incident at the spring again, she saw the twinkle in his green eyes any time he would glance at her. It was a fortunate thing that she was under her majority, or else the journey home would have taken much longer. 

When they did arrive at Alqualondë, it was to a small party. Finarfin and Finrod had bounded out of the house, eagerly embracing her. Glorfindel was welcomed similarly, and he was invited to stay for an extended visit. But he declined the invitation, only staying one night before continuing on to Tirion. As he had explained to a dejected Finrod, Glorfindel's own family was awaiting him. 

After the merry Vanya left, life settled down once again in Alqualondë, as Artanis went back to her old life of swimming, studying, and fighting with her brothers. 

 

Seven years later, Artanis finally reached her majority, and as was tradition among the Eldar, her parents threw a large party in her honor. Now fifty, she would now be regarded as an adult, and for the most part, her life was her own now. She could take lovers if she wished, or she could even get married. But for Artanis, none of these was as important as the ability to chose a mentor - one who would become her personal teacher as she slid into her new role as an adult. 

It was custom to announce this at the party, so she spent several days beforehand trying to decide whom she would choose. She made lists, received advice from people, and even researched Elven history in her attempt. But unfortunately, when it came down to it, no one really appealed to her. 

The problem was that she did not know what direction she was headed in. If she were interested in song and dance, hunting, academics, philosophy, or craftsmanship, the choice would have been easy. But she didn't want to do any of those. As a last resort, she prayed to Lorien to give her a dream that would guide her in choosing. Lorien complied, and he gave her a vision of herself ruling large lands.

This only confused Artanis, for the lands she dreamt of were not any she had seen before. And her subjects - they were Elves whose race she could not identify. After several hours of meditation on the subject, she found herself as confused as before, and so she sought out Olwë.

"An unusual dream, especially for someone like you," he said after Artanis told him of her dream's content. 

"What does it mean?"

He regarded her thoughtfully. "It could mean many things. But it seems to me that you want power, Granddaughter."

She considered this. "Power of what kind?"

"Only you can decide that," he told her cryptically. "But let me give you one piece of advice. There are many paths to power, and they lead to different places. Make sure you choose your path wisely."

Absorbing this, she withdrew once again to her debate on who her mentor should be. Ingwë was a possible choice, but she instinctively knew that the High King's path was not for her. Neither was her father's. And that left only one other choice - Fëanor.

 

Armed with this information, she made a trip to his forges. As Finarfin would have demanded to know why she would be going to see Fëanor, she told him instead that she was going to visit her uncle in Tirion. It was not exactly a lie, for she did plan to visit Fingolfin. It was just that she would see Fëanor first. And since she was only a few days shy of being fifty, she was allowed to travel alone. 

Upon her arrival at his forges, which were a bit difficult to find, she immediately ran into Caranthir. Apparently he hadn't forgotten their fight so many years ago, because his only greeting was another sneer. "Here for another round, swan girl?"

"You wouldn't be up for it," she said breezily. "Now, I am here to see your father - where can I find him?"

Another voice interrupted – this one deeper and more pleasant. "Caranthir, find something else to do than harassing the lovely young women who arrive on our doorstep." It was Maedhros, and he was grinning in their direction.  Caranthir glared at her one more time before walking away. "He hasn't forgiven you for humiliating him the last time we were all in Tirion together," remarked Maedhros when she approached.

"I suppose a truce was too much to hope for," she said in reply. "Anyway, I did not come to see Caranthir – that day is long in coming! – but I came to see your father."

His eyebrows raised, Maedhros only gave her an incredulous glance. "And what business does the Swan Princess have with my father?" he asked. But unlike Caranthir, he spoke without malice.

"I believe that is the Swan Princess's business alone," she returned loftily.

He grinned. "If you insist, I shall take you to him. But just a word of caution - he can get foul-tempered when he is working." As Maedhros led her inside the forge, she was caught by the atmosphere of the place – almost feverish. She listened with half a mind as Maedhros chattered on about random topics, but she was jolted back to reality when he mentioned Glorfindel. "I saw him a while ago, and he mentioned to me that he met a very beautiful swan princess while at Taniquetil." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "It didn't take me long to figure out who he was talking about." 

"Oh, him," she squeaked out, too embarrassed to say more.  

Maedhros poked her in the shoulder. "Yes, him. And he even told me how you both met. I think that is a wonderful way to begin any relationship."

Artanis wanted to sink into the ground. Finrod had teased her mercilessly over the years about that meeting, and now Maedhros would too. She ran through a list of rebuttals mentally, but thankfully, they had finally arrived at Fëanor's workspace.

Currently his back was to them, and after a glance in his direction, Maedhros took his leave of her. Taking a deep breath, Artanis approached her uncle. He must have sensed someone behind him, for he waved her away. "No, I don't want any food. Now leave me in peace!" he snapped.

"I will come at a better time, Uncle." She began backing out.

Fëanor turned and raised his brow. "Nerwen, this is an unexpected pleasure." He beckoned her back in. "Stay." He smiled at her ruefully. "Nerdanel will send over people to make sure I feed myself. Sometimes it becomes annoying."

Saying nothing, she settled down on a large wooden block. Fëanor sat across from her and regarded her curiously. "I was not expecting you, as Finarfin did not send word of your coming."

"My father did not send any word because he does not know I came here." If it were at all possible, Fëanor's brow shot up higher. 

"And your father just let you travel alone?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "I told him that I was going to visit Uncle Fingolfin - and I plan to - but I wanted to come here first."

He grinned at her in that feral way of his. "It pleases me that I was at the top of your list." He poured each of them a glass of water. "So, why have you come? You are not the type to make meaningless social visits."

Pleased by his bluntness, she accepted the glass from him. "My birthday party is coming up soon, as I will be turning fifty."

"Ah, yes, your majority." He regarded her with those fiery eyes of his.

"You will come, won't you, Uncle Fëanor?"

He nodded. "Of course. But you did not come all the way here just to invite me, as flattering as the thought is."

Forcing herself not to look away, she continued. "I plan to take on a mentor, and it will be announced at the celebration. I have considered several mentors, but I have found that the only one I want is you, Uncle." That last bit came out breathlessly, and belatedly she realized that perhaps she should have taken more care when she phrased her request.

Leaning back on his makeshift seat, Fëanor stared at her silently. "Why?"

"I want to learn from you. Not of craftsmanship," she corrected hastily, "but of your views. I find them more fulfilling than all the others I have heard."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "And what did your father say?"

"I have not told him yet." 

His lips quirked into a slight smile. "I think that he will not approve."

Keeping her voice firm, she answered, "It is not for him to approve. It will be the first decision I make as an adult, and he cannot interfere."

"I like that, Nerwen." He gave her an admiring glance. "You do not allow yourself to be washed away by the opinions of others." He leaned forward. "And I am most pleased to accept your request."

 

After stopping by Tirion to see Fingolfin, she returned home to find it frantic as the sea palace was being decorated. Finarfin was the busiest of all, scuttling back and forth as he directed the decoration of the gardens, the food that was going to be served, and the preparations of the ball room. Eärwen was busy as well, as many gifts began streaming into the palace. Ingwë had sent her two finely crafted daggers of the Vanyar warrior class, and Irinel had sent a shimmering, white dress made in the fashion of the Vanyar. It consisted of a long, belted skit that sat low on the hips, and a tight midriff-baring bodice. While Finarfin and Finrod had frowned at it, Artanis chose to wear it for her party. Fëanor had also sent his gift in advance - a set of jewelry made entirely of glass. 

Yet Artanis cornered her parents the night before her party, in order to tell them her choice in advance, as it would be unfair for them to be unprepared tomorrow. "Father, Mother, I wanted to tell you my choice of a mentor."

Her mother smiled at her gently. "You do not need to tell us now, little one. Tomorrow will suffice." Her father nodded in agreement, his thoughts already caught up in planning for tomorrow.

"No!" she shouted. "You need to hear it now." Her parents stared at her curiously, surprised by her outburst. "My mentor will be Fëanor."

They stared at her in surprise. "Fëanor as in my brother Fëanor?" asked Finarfin.

"How many Fëanor's are there?" snapped Eärwen. She looked at her daughter closely. "Are you sure?" Receiving an affirmative nod from her daughter, Eärwen sighed. "The choice is yours to make."

Finarfin still stared at his daughter, disbelieving. "Artanis, do you want to be a metal-worker?"

"No."

"A jewel-smith? A scholar? A linguist?"

Artanis sighed in frustration. Finarfin was going to make this difficult. "No, none of those things."

Finarfin slammed his hand down on the table, causing both Artanis and Eärwen to jump back in surprise. "Then why are you taking Fëanor as your mentor?" he shouted.

"Because he can teach me other things."

He looked at her, his eyes hard. "He can teach you about rebellion, about disloyalty to the Valar. Is that what you wish to learn?"

"Father, I will learn what he teaches me. As mother said, it is my choice." Finarfin's head snapped back, as if he had been slapped.

"You have made your decision then." Giving her a final look of betrayal, he silently departed the room.

Indeed, the decision had been made. The stream that had separated her from her father was now as wide as the Belegaer. And it could no longer be repaired. 

 

The guests had taken Artanis's announcement with surprise, but none had remarked upon it otherwise. Fingolfin had sympathetically tried to comfort this brother, but Finarfin would have none of that. Indis had sternly instructed her child to be joyous on such a happy occasion, but he had refused. Instead, he had hunted out Fëanor and drew him to the balcony.

"Is this another one of your tricks, a sly manipulation?" Finarfin demanded.

Fëanor snapped back, "She came to me, not the other way around." The look of anger changed to one of triumph as he continued on, a sneer on his features. "Can't you stomach the fact that she prefers me to you? Are you jealous, little brother? Jealous that she wears the jewelry I gave her tonight, instead of the ones you did?"

Finarfin was silent, until, "I swear on the Valar, that if you hurt her, I will kill you." Fëanor's eyes widened slightly at hearing that. Finarfin had never made a threat even remotely violent before. His youngest brother stepped closer, for once looking menacing. "I will kill you," he repeated.

Fëanor stepped back, out of his brother's reach. "Swear on the Valar all you want, but the only one hurting Nerwen is you. You stifle her here in Alqualondë." Finarfin's eyes widened in outrage, but Fëanor would not allow him to speak. "Like any plant, she will die from a lack of sunlight, no matter how much you water her."

"And I suppose you will give her sunlight, your twisted kind." Finarfin's lips curled back.

Fëanor narrowed his eyes. "Better some than none."

"I would rather have her dead than turn out to be like you!"

"Would you?" Finarfin stepped back. "Would you?" Fëanor repeated softly. Then he laughed slightly, a sound that froze Finarfin's heart. "Fate will decide who Artanis turns out like. For her sake, I hope it isn't like you." With that, Fëanor turned and went back into the ball room. Finarfin remained a few moments before he also followed. 

Below them, under the balcony, Artanis listened to this sadly. "You shouldn't overhear things like that." The voice came from behind her, and she turned to see Glorfindel standing there. He came closer. "When people eavesdrop on private conversations, they often hear things they should not."

"I am a pawn, a chess piece," said Artanis bitterly.

Her golden-haired companion nodded in agreement. "They are maneuvering you." 

"I am not that important." 

Glorfindel chuckled, the musical sound filling the garden. "I beg to disagree." 

Her fingers traced the elaborate patterns on the railing. "I thought that it would stop, once I reached my majority."

His fingers traced the line of her jaw. "It only gets worse." 

Her stomach fluttering, whether because of the conversation she had overheard or the fingers touching her face, she asked softly, "I wish they would stop."

"You can only outmaneuver them." 

She turned to look at him closely. "Are you trying to maneuver me?"

He laughed. "The only place I would try to maneuver you is into my bedroom." He stepped back and raked her with a burning green glance. "The urge has only increased since we last met." She felt a thrill of pleasure at that fact. Since he had last seen her, she had grown to her full height, and she was taller than most Noldor and Teleri. Her build had firmed as well, and she resembled the Vanyar in everything except the hair.

Which Glorfindel was currently fingering. "This time, perhaps you should be the one without clothes." He held out his hand.

She considered this proposition seriously. Her father certainly would not like this, and neither would her brothers, or her cousins, and perhaps even Fëanor. But she wanted this, and that was what counted. It was her decision to make.

She placed her hand in his. "Perhaps I will."

                

 

 

Notes:

-          The characteristics of the Vanyar is based mostly on the descriptions in _The Unfinished Tales_ , the “History of Galadriel and Celeborn” (..she grew to be tall beyond the measure even of the women of the Noldor; she was strong of body, mind, and will, a match for the loremasters and athletes of the Eldar in the days of their youth…”) and from the _HoME, Book 4, the Shaping of Middle-Earth_ , “The Quenta” (…very tall was she [Idril], well nigh of a warrior’s stature, and her hair was a fountain of gold…).

-          I refuse to believe Elves were chaste until they got married. No way. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

A quick note – I would like to mention two things. Number one is that in my second chapter, I mistakenly made a reference to sunlight, which is incorrect because the sun hasn’t been created yet (thanks to Finch for noticing that). The second thing is that one of the emails I received about this story expressed concern over the Glorfindel business. I promise that this story is NOT an AU. Everything will go as Tolkien said it would. And if it is not, then please let me know! That means that the Two Trees will darken, that Fëanor will die (as much as I wish otherwise), as well as Glorfindel, much later at Gondolin, and that Galadriel will marry Celeborn. As I have said before, this is strictly my interpretation of the events in Valinor. And as always, thanks for the reviews.

  
Year 1435 of the Valian Years of the Trees  


"What is this place?" Although they were quite alone, Artanis felt the need to whisper the question to Fëanor.

In the three years that had passed, Fëanor had created the earth gems. These were a delight to all who beheld them, but Fëanor, once he completed the task of making them, went on to higher pursuits. Artanis would often watch him, but she rarely participated. Being a smithy was not an appealing prospect for her, so she would instead spend the time watching Fëanor himself. She found that there was much to be learned in watching his face.

After a particularly exhausting day at the forge – exhausting for Fëanor and his sons, but not for her – Fëanor decided to take Artanis on a journey with him. Artanis, who had never gone traveling with him, expected that perhaps he would take her to the nearby woods. So she was surprised to discover that he was taking her to the seashore had Araman.

Which was where they were currently now. And instead of answering her question, he asked one of his own. "What do you think, Nerwen?" he asked. They were standing on a cliff overlooking the sea. Unlike the peaceful blue waters at Alqualondë, the waters here were dark and stormy. The light from the Two Trees was faint, and for once, Artanis felt completely separated from the rest of the world.

"Why have your brought me here?" she asked. She felt uncomfortable in this place.

He laughed. "You are a lover of the sea. Surely you have no need to ask."

She hesitated. "But this is a different kind of sea."

He reached out with his hand, as if he were trying to grab the horizon in front of him. "This is my kind of sea, Nerwen." _And the sea at Alqualondë is my father's kind of sea._ The thought came to her mind unbidden, but she saw the truth in them.

Fëanor closed his eyes as the harsh sea breeze caressed his face. "The water here is unsettled, restless. There is no peace here. No civilization. He opened his eyes, and she was caught by the intensity of his bright orbs. "You can feel the raw power of this place."

A bolt of lightening, followed by the sharp crack of thunder. Fëanor smiled at her, and although she could not quite identify why, she suddenly felt cold. "It appears that Ossë and Ulmo are not having any success at taming the wild beast," said he, referring to the sea. He beckoned her forward. "Look down."

She did, and she fought to keep the fear off her face because the cliff they were standing on had a sheer drop of almost two hundred feet. "That is a long way down."

"We shall go down there, you and I. And then we shall go swimming." At her horrified look, he laughed. "Do no fret so. We will not go down that way."

Her throat tightened. "The waters are swift, and there are many undertows. If we get caught in them, not even the powers of Ulmo can save us."

Another cold smile. "You only know the calm, Nerwen, not the storm." At that point, she remembered the worlds of Finwë long ago. _They who know the storm sicken at the calm._

And when they returned home, Artanis found that she no longer found any joy in swimming in peaceful waters.

Two weeks later, Maglor was watching in amusement as his father and Artanis sat on a bench outside their house. He could tell that no words were being exchanged, but there was an air of contentment around them. He felt a slight pang of jealousy at that, for none of Fëanor's own sons was as close to Fëanor as Artanis was.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned to see his mother regarding him silently. Saying nothing, he turned back to looking outside. Nerdanel slid an arm around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. "They are a strange pair," she remarked casually.

"Indeed. I often wonder what they think about, when no words are spoken between them." He said this lightly, but his mother heard the underlying pain in his melodious voice.

She looked at the pair with a smile. "They are probably mentally preparing for another one of their debates." She looked up at her second-born. "Maglor, why are you so troubled?"

"In the few years that Artanis has come to live with us, Father spends most of his time with her. He rarely even speaks to us anymore." His eyes were sad. "I do not mean to sound jealous, for we all love Artanis…except maybe Caranthir. But it also hurts us too. Especially Russandol." Maglor sighed. "And Russandol loves Father the most, and he has always worked the hardest to please him."

Nerdanel nodded thoughtfully. "It is true that your father has become absorbed in his new apprentice. But Maglor," she said, placing her hands on his cheeks, "everyday your father tells me how grateful he is to have sons like you. He is so proud of all of you. Many times he will say that you inherited your talent in singing from him, since music is but another art of creation." She gave him a slight smile. "And he is most sad that you are now betrothed to Meril-i-turinqi. He was most reluctant to part with you."

"So Meril told me," said Maglor ruefully.

She embraced him once more. "Out of all my children, you have inherited the most from me. But there is something of your father in you, and that is your loyalty. Just as he is loyal to Finwë, you are loyal to him. And nothing pleases him more than that." She glanced at the pair on the bench once again.

"He has always wanted a daughter."

She nodded again. "Yes, he has. And perhaps he imagines that Artanis is his daughter. It certainly is no secret that she and Finarfin have not been on good terms recently. But regardless, the love he has for his sons has not diminished." Maglor was reassured by the firmness in his mother's voice. Sometimes, it was Nerdanel who was far wiser than even his father.

Later that night, Nerdanel decided to broach the topic with her husband. "Husband, you have been spending much time with your apprentice recently."

Fëanor's eyes twinkled. "Are you worried?"

"I would be if she were older," chuckled Nerdanel. Regardless of anything else, her husband's love for her was something she had never doubted. She could always feel it radiating from his mind. "But your sons are."

He looked surprised. "Why?"

"You don't spend as much time with them as you used to. They miss you." She ran her fingers through his black hair. "They think that you like Artanis more."

He scoffed. "They have no need to be jealous." But then his eyes softened. "But perhaps you are right. Maybe the eight of us will journey around Valinor for a week, like we used to. You two women can stay at home and do women things." He was grinning at her now.

"That would be…flirting and gossiping, neither of which we can do when there are eight nosy men in the house." She gave him a smirk of her own. "Besides, once you and your sons are out of the house, I do believe Glorfindel will be dropping by."

He looked displeased. "Glorfindel is a Vanyarin pacifist," he grumbled.

His wife rolled her eyes. "And Finarfin thinks he is a Noldorin hothead. He certainly cannot be both."

"There are so many Noldor down in Tirion. Can't Nerwen dally with one of them?" Nerdanel was about to laugh when she saw how serious Fëanor was. He continued, "I am afraid that Glorfindel will corrupt her."

Nerdanel shook her head. The Vanyar could hardly be called corrupters. "Artanis is an intelligent girl. She can judge for herself on what to believe." He grumbled something unintelligible to her. Nerdanel narrowed her eyes slightly. Her husband's attachment to Artanis was leaving the bounds of teacher and student. "Fëanor, Artanis is not your daughter. Do not make the mistake of thinking otherwise."

He turned back to her, his eyes flashing. "She should be my daughter. Finarfin does not deserve her!"

"Yet she is Finarfin's daughter, and you cannot change that," she replied mildly.

He began pacing. "Fingolfin had three children, and one of them was female. Finarfin had five children, and one of them was female. I have seven! Why didn't I get one! Why did Finarfin?" He looked bitter. "Nerdanel, Nerwen should have been my daughter. She burns inside, just as I do. Finarfin is not strong enough to be her father."

She placed a hand on his arm. "But you cannot change fate. And regardless of Finarfin's qualifications to be her father, you have no right to aid in their estrangement." Fëanor looked insulted, but Nerdanel would have none of that. "Yes, I know what you are trying to do. But turning Artanis against her father will not endear you to her any better."

Fëanor made no response.

"Honestly, _meleth_ , you should consider mending the relationship with your father." The lazy voice belonged to Glorfindel, who was currently stretched out on the grass, his head comfortably situated in her lap.

Idly running her fingers through his hair, she smiled ruefully. "I would think that my estrangement from my father makes the situation easier for you." It was well known that Finarfin was not as pleased with the relationship between Glorfindel and Artanis. She braided one of his long, golden tresses. "And I would think that Fëanor's absence in Tirion right now has made the situation even more convenient."

He laughed quietly. "I will not deny that the current circumstances are to my advantage."

"I wonder why they frown at this so." The question was spoken idly, but Artanis had been wondering for a long time.

"Fëanor dislikes me because I am half Vanyar, and Finarfin dislikes me because I am half Noldor," he quipped, as he borrowed deeper into her lap.

She chuckled. "Fingolfin likes you very much."

"Thank the Valar for that." He opened his eyes and gazed at her. "But back to the original topic. You and your father cannot remain the way you are now. It isn't as if you have stopped loving each other."

She sighed in frustration. "No, we have not. But he refuses to even speak to me. He thinks that I have betrayed him."

"Didn't you?" It was said quietly, and she almost didn't hear it.

She shoved Glorfindel off her lap. "Is that what you think?" She stood up angrily. "My father is too stubborn even to listen to what Fëanor has to say." She elaborated. "I will admit that some of his ideas are a bit extreme," at which Glorfindel raised his slender, golden eyebrows, "but other ones do have some merit."

"Artanis, he hates the Valar."

"He does not hate them. He simply finds them…stifling." She took a deep breath. "Glorfindel, we are starting to have the same arguments that I have with my father. Please, I do not want to speak of this anymore." The look she cast him was pleading, and although Glorfindel wanted to continue the argument, he relented.

Opening his arms, he beckoned her back into his embrace. "I am sorry, _meleth_. Instead, we will talk about the different uses of this flower," he murmured, as he gently plucked a pink blossom from a nearby bush. Glorfindel threw her a wicked glance that told her exactly what uses he had in mind. "Perhaps we can even put some to use."

Her only response was...understandable.

When Fëanor returned from his journey with his sons, she found that all of them were in much better moods. Even Caranthir was surprisingly amiable. _Perhaps my father and I should do the same,_ she thought ruefully.

The next morning, on her way to his forges, she stopped by a nearby stream to drink some water. But as she kneeling at the riverbank, she overheard voices raised in argument. One was Fëanor's, while the other was much deeper…and blacker. Carefully crawling along the underbrush of the forest, she went closer to the source of the quarrel. Peaking through a bush, she saw Fëanor, his face contorted in anger, and another person, whose malicious face caused her heart to freeze with dread.

For it was no elf that Fëanor was holding converse with. It was a being to powerful too be an Elf, nay, even a Maia. It was Melkor.

Straining to hear their conversation, she crept closer, although she lost sight of them due to the dense undergrowth.

"Think, Fëanor. You want justice." The cold voice was Melkor's. "Join me, and you will have what your mother sacrificed you for…what your brothers covet. You will have what Finwë denied you and more. What greater justice than to take what you were born for."

Artanis was screaming mentally at Fëanor. _Don't listen, don't believe, don't trust!_

"I can hand you the keys to the Eldalië empire, everything that Ingwë acquired in his ruthless drive for power."

_Another lie! Ingwë is not ruthless. He is gentle, the most gentlest man of all, just as my father is._

"No one will ever scorn you again, or treat you in a contemptible manner."

_No one has ever treated you without the utmost respect, Fëanor!_.

"As my servant, you will be my prince in every sense. My prince, my apprentice, my son…and homage will be paid to you."

She remembered a common saying among the Vanyar. _He that once goes through a tyrant's door, becomes a slave, however free before._

"I want you next to me, Fëanor. Only you can satisfy me. Only you."

_No!_

"We are two of a kind, Fëanor. You and I."

_You are nothing like him! He is evil, and you are not!_

"Together we will take back the world that was meant to be ours."

She held her breath. If only she could see his face! What reply would her uncle give?

When Fëanor did speak, she shivered to hear the undercurrents of rage in his normally beautiful voice. "I do want justice, but my loyalty is to my father and the memory of my mother." A pause, and then, "There is nothing you can give me that would even tempt me to consider your offer. I would rather languish as I am now than ever be at your side!"

She heard Melkor sputter. But Fëanor continued on. "I am no one's servant…and I will never be your son."

The Vala cursed. "You will rue this day. Your arrogance has sealed your fate." She heard him stomp away.

After a few moments, she stood and beheld the scene in front of her. Fëanor was sitting on the ground, his face tortured. After a moment's hesitation, Artanis went to sit next to him. "You did the right thing, Uncle." She tenderly stroked his hair.

He sighed and allowed Artanis to have better access to his head. "I hate Melkor." Another sigh. "I wish he would stop offering me what I want the most."

Her hand stilled. "You believe what he said?"

"To an extent," he admitted. "I am my father's first son. It is my right to be his heir. Yet I fear that Fingolfin will take it away." He clenched his fine hands. "He is usurping my place in Finwë's heart."

Her heart beginning to feel heavy, she resumed stroking his hair. "And what he said about Ingwë? About ruling?"

Fëanor caught a hold of her hand and held it between his own. "I both admire and despise the high king. He has too much power over us. He is more of the Valar's people than ours." Now he began to run his fingers through Artanis's own hair. "And I will not deny the fact that I wish to rule. I was born to power, Nerwen. I was born to rule." He paused and looked at her closely. "Just as you were." He fingered a lock of her hair, and then took a lock of his own, and then held them side-by-side. "Dark and light in appearance, yet so similar inside."

"But the only way for you to rule is for Grandfather Finwë to die." Simply saying it caused her to shiver. "And you would still be under the rule of the high king."

He began to weave her hair into a plait. "That is true…if I wanted to rule here." At her look of confusion, he expounded on that thought. "There is land that still belongs to us, the lands of our origin." He stood up. "Valinor is not our home. The Valar have brought us here to be their pets. They like to look at our beauty." He began to pace. "Our rightful place is back on Arda. There we could form our own dominions. We would rule not only people but lands." He paused in front of her, his eyes burning. "We would choose our fates."

"The Valar have brought us here for our safety. Melkor polluted Arda. He made it unsafe." The argument was beginning to well within her.

He waved that comment away. "We of the Eldar have not forgotten the ways of the warrior. We can cleanse the lands ourselves."

She tried one last time. "The Valar love us."

He scoffed. "As Maglor loves his pet birds. Valinor is a cage, Nerwen." Seeing her look of disagreement, he held out his hand to her. "Let us stop this discussion. We have reached an impasse." She nodded and took his hand.

And it was then that she understood what had happened. For the first time, she and her mentor had failed to cross a hurdle in their relationship. Normally, Fëanor would encourage her to take opposing sides from him. He encouraged her to argue, to debate, to prove. But this time, it was no mere lesson. This was something close to their hearts. And they had disagreed.

Their trip to the forge was silent, but once they got there, Fëanor became animated again. "Nerwen, I will teach you something of creation today."

"Jewel-smithing?" she asked, puzzled.

He shook his head, his black tresses swinging from side to side. "In a sense." He smiled, except this time his smile was devoid of the darkness she had seen in it earlier. "I will show you how to capture starlight."

Several more years had passed, and Artanis found that she also hungered for the lands of their ancestors. Her brothers and cousins were also being infected with the very same fever, as well as many of the Noldor. But Finarfin remained apart from all this, since Arda was not even an issue for him.

Many times, she had tried to heal the breach between her father and her. Yet every time, Finarfin would ask her, "Do you believe in him?" To which she would always reply, "Yes."

Their relationship was not improving.

But the hallmark of these years was the creation of the Silmarils. They were Fëanor's greatest accomplishment to date, and even the Valar and Ingwë bowed to Fëanor's mastery. When he had made them, he had showed his father, his sons, Nerdanel, and Artanis. But unlike the rest of them, Artanis found no comfort in their light.

It was a paradox, if at all possible. A contradiction. Fëanor said that the Elves were prisoners of the Valar. But didn't Fëanor make the light of the Two Trees _his_ prisoner?

At first, he allowed the Silmarils to remain on display. But when Melkor began to hover around them, Fëanor panicked and locked the Silmarils in a vault. He had confided to Artanis that he was confident that Melkor would try to steal his Silmarils from him.

_His Silmarils._

But were they really his?

It was during this time that Finarfin came to see the Silmarils. Although Fëanor had been reluctant at first in showing them to his youngest brother, Artanis knew what motivated her mentor in the end to let Finarfin see them. It was Fëanor's victory. And he wanted his little brother to see that while Finarfin was busy philosophizing at Taniquetil, he had used his fire – the same fire that Finarfin had condemned on several occasions – to make the greatest masterpieces of the Eldalië race.

Afterwards, when father and daughter had taken a walk together, he asked her opinion of the Silmarils. "They are beautiful, Father," she replied truthfully. "He truly is a genius, to be able to create such things of light."

He had smiled sadly. "That is where you are wrong, Artanis. Fëanor did not create this light. It existed long before him, before his father, indeed, before the awakening of our entire race. He has stolen the light. He has stolen it and has reshaped it."

Although she privately agreed with his thoughts, she and her father had been too long estranged for her to admit it. "Yet you cannot deny he is a master."

"No, I cannot." Finarfin looked slightly troubled. "But if he becomes too immersed in his craftsmanship, he will cease to become a master and will instead become a slave." Finarfin wrapped his cloak around him, as if to ward off the cold, although it was very warm outside. "I am concerned that he is already a slave."

She made no reply to her father's comment. Instead, she remembered Fëanor's long ago conversation with Melkor. Fëanor had vowed never to become a servant. But wasn't he already one?

Her father stopped to examine a rose growing in a nearby bush. "Ah, that is a wondrous scent," he said as he sniffed it. "And it is lovely to behold as well." He touched the petals softly. "It is said that the seeds of rebellion are planted deep within the petals of roses." He resumed his walking.

Finarfin continued. "And I am also afraid that he has become too prideful." He smiled slightly. "Fëanor always had the most pride, even in the days of our youths. But people in their right minds never take excessive pride in their talents."

"You do not think he is in his right mind?" She had heard rumors, whispers, that Fingolfin considered Fëanor mentally unstable.

Finarfin looked thoughtful. "I would not exactly say that. But I think he needs to restrain his impulses." He shook his head. "But that is not exactly why I have to come here today." He stopped walking and held her hands within his own. "I came here to ask you to come back home." Finarfin looked at her gravely. "I know that I have prattled to you about my brother's stubbornness, but I have also been afflicted by it." He sighed. "Artanis, I will never approve of Fëanor as your mentor. But it was your choice, and I do accept it, even if I do not understand it."

"I wish you would not question my judgment, Father. I am fully capable of listening to his blatant anti-Valar arguments without being swayed by them." She allowed her father to see how grieved she was at his lack of trust in her.

He touched her cheek with his fingers gently. "I know, Artanis. It is just hard for me to see that. But you are my youngest child, and I never wanted to part with you. I did not want to see you hurt."

She allowed her bemusement to show in her eyes. "But he has not hurt me."

"Has he not?" She found that she could give no reply. "Artanis, regardless of all this, your mother has missed you. Your grandfather Olwë has missed you. Your brothers have missed you. And I have missed you." He looked away from her then, but she caught the glisten in his clear eyes. _The eyes that were so different from Fëanor's._

But no less beloved.

She went back with her father, and while they had reached a new understanding, the old hurts still remained. She found that both Fëanor and Finarfin could easily hurt her, although neither of them had ever consciously tried. But at least now Finarfin made no objection when she went to visit Fëanor, nor did they ever speak of her time at his forges. It was as if Finarfin wanted to pretend that Fëanor's part in Artanis's life was nonexistent, and Artanis was only too happy to oblige him in that.

Several years after that, Finwë had summoned his sons to him in Tirion. Although Artanis did not go as well, she heard later that Fëanor had drawn a sword to Fingolfin and had consequently been exiled from Tirion. From Indis she learned that Fëanor had founded a city, Formenos, and that his father and sons went with him.

So she went to Formenos. And when she got there, he had greeted her in his normal, grave way. "Good day to you, Nerwen."

"Good day to you, Uncle Fëanor." But once the formalities were over with, they had resumed their previous relationship. Their debates would often last for hours, as they discussed one topic after another. Artanis, who favored mental communication over written, enjoyed arguing with Fëanor, forever a proponent of written and spoken language. As he had told her, "Language is the very essence of thinking. It is both the cradle and the gate of intelligence." _Too imprecise_ , she had replied. Of course, the discussion had no end.

It was easy for her to forget the situation that Fëanor was in. She refused to believe that he created it, since it was Melkor who was responsible. She knew the lies that Melkor had woven around her uncle, and while he had not taken them to heart, he became tangled in them anyway. Instead, she was content to pretend that none of the events of the past several years had not happened. And Fëanor allowed her to believe it was so.

But reality crashed in the day before she was to leave Formenos. She was in his library, waiting for him to appear for their nightly discussions. When he did appear, his eyes held the same feverish light that they held when he was creating something in his forge. "Nerwen, I have just had a brilliant idea."

"What is it, Uncle?" she questioned, curious of his breathless tone.

He came forward and grabbed a lock of her hair. "I was in my vault, with my Silmarils." _They are not your Silmarils._ "And I remembered the time in Tirion, long before you became my apprentice. We would watch the light of the Two Trees mingle together. The gold and the silver."

She nodded but stayed silent. "And then I realized that your hair is that very same color, the gold and the silver mixed together." She nodded again. She had heard that comment many times from many people, although Fëanor had never even shown the slightest interest until now. Even ten years ago, when Maedhros had told her to be proud of her beauty, Fëanor had rebuked him sharply. _She was born with those looks. She has done nothing to earn them. So she has no cause to be proud of her looks. Is that what she should be known for?_ And she had been amazed then, because Fëanor was a lover of beauty. He enjoyed creating it, duplicating it. Yet he had never sought beauty in people. Nerdanel was considered rather unlovely compared to most Elven women, but Fëanor, the high prince of the Noldor, had married her anyway.

His voice brought her back to the present. "Give me a strand of your hair, Nerwen. I will encase their light."

_Make me your prisoner. Never._ "I cannot."

He looked puzzled. Apparently he had never been refused before. "Why?"

"Because it is my hair. It belongs on my head, not in a stone."

"Then people can admire it better." He still looked puzzled.

Artanis shook her head. "You would trap the light of my hair. In essence, you would trap me."

His eyes narrowing, he relented, although she could see that this argument was far from over. "Very well…Artanis."

_Artanis._ He had never called her Artanis before.

Five years passed, and Manwë had called a feast, in order to calm the restless hearts of the Noldor. Because Manwë knew Fëanor well, the Lord of the Winds ordered the son of Finwë to attend. And as much as Fëanor despised the Valar, he could not refuse such a blatant summon.

This was the opportunity that Melkor had been waiting for.

And so, two hours later found Finwë dead, with Fëanor was weeping over his body.

_Curse the Valar curse Morgoth curse Ingwë curse Indis for bearing Fingolfin curse them all!_

Behind him, his vaults lay open.

He clenched his hands. History would never forget his vengeance, and the world would tremble in his wake.

Notes:

\- _meleth_ – “lover”

\- A lot of this comes from the _Silmarillion_ and the _Unfinished Tales._


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

Author Note – I have disclaimed enough, and I am tired of it. Much of this chapter will revolve around the events in the Shibboleth of Fëanor (Volume 12 of _HoME_ , The Peoples of Middle Earth). Since Tolkien does such a nice job of describing the events surrounding the rape of the Silmarils, I don’t plan to have any actual text. So I beg your forgiveness when I skip speeches and actual dialogue. If you really are interested in what’s going on, read the aforementioned sourceJ Furthermore, this story is becoming longer than I had originally planned. It was supposed to be a four-part deal, but it is the fourth chapter, and Galadriel hasn’t even gotten to Beleriand yet! I had no idea her life was so complicated.

One week after the death of Finwë and the darkening of Valinor.  


In the graceful sea palace at Alqualondë, Finarfin sat in a dark room, brooding, as the world around him crumbled. Half of his household was scurrying around, as they sought to occupy their minds in order to distract themselves from the grief of Finwë’s death. The rest had collapsed into fits of weeping, as if their tears would bring back the beloved king.

But Finarfin brooded.

In a distant plane of his mind, he found it odd to sit in the darkness. After all, he had never really seen it before. For once, the cheery lights of Laurelin or the soothing beams of Telperion were not there to shine down upon him. Now, only stars illuminated the island, as well as the lamps the Eldar had rarely before lit.

Finarfin missed the Trees.

After all, it was easier to miss the Trees than to miss his father. Because if he thought of his father too long, Finarfin would weep. He would weep with sadness, with bitterness, and with anger. All directed at his eldest brother.

And Finarfin would not grant him that victory. Because all his life, Fëanor had spent much energy in making his youngest brother learn to accept wrath as a natural feeling. And all his life, Finarfin had denied it.

Tomorrow he would have to make the journey to Tirion. Fëanor had called a gathering of all Noldor, and although he was still exiled by Manwë’s decree, he had called it in Tirion. _As if a command of the Valar would ever stop Fëanor_ , thought Finarfin darkly.

Far away, in the Vanyar palace on Taniquetil, Artanis was seated in front of Ingwë. The high king had commanded her presence a few days before, and Artanis had hurriedly left Tirion in order to comply with Ingwë’s command. Right now, the golden-haired king was looking at her gravely. For once, the merriment that had always been present around him was gone. “I have summoned you here because I wish for your counsel regarding Fëanor.”

“I am hardly adequate counsel, Grandfather Ingwë. My father or Uncle Fingolfin, or perhaps even Nerdanel would be more suitable.” She met the eyes of the king squarely – not as easy thing to do, because his eyes were even more piercing than Fëanor’s.

He shook his head. His golden hair swishing around him elegantly. “I disagree, Artanis. Because of all people, Fëanor held you in highest regard, after his parents and wife.” Noticing the stubborn look that came into her eyes, he gave her a hard look. “I am not asking you to divulge information that was told to you in confidence, because that is a breach of trust. But I need to know what Fëanor will do now.”

She relaxed slightly. Now that she knew she was not going to be pressured to reveal all she knew, she relented with the king’s request. “Of all creatures, Fëanor hates Melkor the most. And since Melkor is responsible for the death of his father and the theft of the Silmarils, Fëanor will do anything to take revenge and recover his creations.” She took a deep breath. “Fëanor will pursue Melkor even into Arda.”

Ingwë hissed. “Fëanor has always spoken of going to Arda, and now he has an opportunity. And I fear that most of the Noldor will welcome it.” He looked at Artanis pointedly. “Is it a safe assumption to assume you will also be following?”

She only shrugged.

In Tirion, Turgon and Elenwë sat on a bench as they watched their daughter Idril play on the lawn of their house. Since it was technically morning, they had eaten a light breakfast, although both had felt uncomfortable in the strange darkness. Their daughter was currently dancing under the starlight, something she had never been able to do before. Because Telperion had been lit during the night, the light of the stars was always muted in Valinor, unless one went to places where the light of the Two Trees never reached.

Elenwë snuggled in her husband’s embrace. By nature, Turgon was a silent man, not given to much emotion. And although he seemed to be his normal self, she knew how troubled and saddened he was by the recent events. “I had hoped that when Idril married, it would have been under the Two Trees.” His voice was muted.

“Pah! You would never let her marry!” she said, in an effort to keep the situation light. It had some effect, because the corners of his mouth rose in that slight smile that she suspected only she could ever see. But before he could make an adequate response, Idril’s squeal of delight caught their attention. They looked up to see a tall, handsome, golden-haired Elf approaching their house. Before he could even make it to the lawn, Idril launched herself into his arms.

Glorfindel laughed, the tinkling sound filling the garden. Elenwë sent a silent prayer of thanks to whoever had sent Glorfindel their way, because now Turgon was bounding over to his friend. Smiling to herself, she followed, although at a less rapid pace. After many boisterous greetings on all their parts, they went toward the house, with Idril currently attached to Glorfindel’s leg.

Once inside, Turgon hurriedly made some tea while Elenwë laid out some fruits on the table. When Glorfindel protested, Elenwë shushed him. “If you will not partake of our hospitality, I will never speak to you again.” Being threatened by Elenwë was no small thing, so Glorfidel ate quite generously – with Idril still attached to his leg. But the Vanya made no move to displace the little Elfin child and seemed quite content to have her there.

After eating, he quickly gave them an update on his family. “Both my father and my mother have returned to Taniquetil, even though my mother will probably be the only Noldo there. My sister is divided, because she too wants to go back to Taniquetil, but she wants to remain because of her friendship with Maedhros and Maglor.”

“Ar-Kaliel has always been torn between her heritage,” remarked Elenwë. “But she certainly has the fierce heart of the Noldor, even if it conflicts with her Vanyarin loyalty for the Valar.”

Turgon looked at his friend closely. “And what of you, my friend?”

“I am as I always was.” A typical noncommittal response from Glorfindel.

Elenwë’s eyes were twinkling in the mischievous way of the Vanyar. “I think you need companionship.”

“Are you offering?” asked Glorfindel, a responding twinkle in his own eyes.

She patted the seat next to her enticingly, but Turgon placed a hand on Glorfindel’s shoulder. “Accepting that invitation could be painful for you.” Now Turgon’s eyes were twinkling as well.

Elenwë laughed and then kissed her husband passionately. Glorfindel sighed and covered the inquisitive eyes of Idril. “I shall have to settle for being second best in your heart, Elenwë.”

“Not second best! Third best! Mama loves me next after Papa!” The voice was Idril’s, slightly muffled because Glorfindel was still covering her eyes. Finally becoming free, she gazed at her parents with wide eyes. “They do that a lot, when they think I’m not looking.” Her parents broke apart, laughing again.

Another exaggerated sigh from Glorfindel. “It appears that I shall have to be lonely then.”

Idril climbed onto his lap. “You can marry me if you want.”

“Glorfindel, you are dangerous to have around my family,” growled Turgon, although the twinkle hadn’t left his eyes. “First you try to seduce my wife, and now my daughter!”

“What can I do? It is no fault of mine that I was born so appealing,” he sniffed. Turgon threw him a pointed look. Laughing, Glorfindel held up his hands. “Besides, I currently am involved in the seduction of your cousin.”

Turgon grinned. “Make sure you never say it like that in front of Finrod. He would be obliged to defend the honor of his sister.” Turgon looked at his friend more closely. “Besides, why haven’t you two married yet?” Elenwë rolled her eyes at Turgon’s bluntness, but Glorfindel seemed to take no offense.

“It is something that has not yet come up in discussion.” His words made Elenwë consider him more closely. Deciding that nothing could be accomplished with Turgon and Idril around, she sent them to clean the dining area.

After they left, Elenwë sat next to Glorfindel. “What is wrong, friend?”

He sighed, except this time it was heartfelt. “Artanis has been troubled, as of late. She finds herself pulled by both her father and Fëanor. I am hesitant to say anything because it would add to her burdens.”

“Why would this be a burden? I would think it would be something of a relief.” Her eyes were shrewd.

Glorfindel hesitated slightly. "And I do not know the depth of her feelings for me."

Elenwë nodded thoughtfully. "And during these troubled times, you can hardly have discuss such things." She patted his knee reassuringly. "If I were you, I would wait until things become more normal, and then you both should speak of the future."

"Your words are rooted in much wisdom, friend Elenwë." He stretched. "I will allow things to remain as they are...for now."

The next day, Glorfindel was pleased to see that his sister had chosen to remain behind in Tirion. Ar-Kaliel was tall and very strong – indeed, she was known as the Huntress, for her skills in that area were unparalleled. But as imposing as a presence she was, her Vanyarin nature had given her a gentle spirit and a reverence for the Valar. She was never described as beautiful, but she was very arresting and attractive in her own way. She had the same green eyes as Glorfindel, although her hair was a rich golden-brown, a trademark feature of their Noldorin mother.

Both brother and sister were cheerful by nature, and so they arranged to have a picnic the day before the gathering of the Noldor would take place. Invited were Maedhros and Maglor, as well as Artanis and Meril-i-turinqi, the granddaughter of Ingwë and Maglor's beloved. The six of them had a rather merry feast, although the shadow was as ever on their horizon. But Ar-Kaliel, who also shared Glorfindel's mischief, spent most of her time teasing Maglor and Meril, mostly in an effort to keep their sadness at bay.

"If you two have any children, think what hellions they will be!" Poking Maglor in the shoulder, she continued, "And what will these two gentle folk do, with such hellish offspring?"

Maedhros was always ready to tease his favorite brother. "And they certainly will be hellish! After all, our father bears Fëanor as his mother name, and fiery he certainly is! And Meril, well, her own mother is Arien, the fire-maiden herself!"

"Just wait until you get married, the both of you! If our children will be as bad as you say, I am almost afraid to imagine what either of yours will be like!" Meril said this laughingly, her own golden voice always a nice accompaniment to Maglor's.

Ar-Kaliel waved that comment away. "Perhaps when Maedhros gets married, there will be much cause for alarm. But if I ever marry – and this unlikely, since I love nothing more than the forests – my children will be perfect."

"Only if they take after your husband, whoever that unlucky man may be," interjected her brother.

Maglor smirked. "Perhaps you should stick to the forests, my dear huntress."

"I certainly intend to! Only my mother keeps interfering with my plans!" Ar-Kaliel turned to Artanis, who had so far remained quiet. "What do you think, Swan Princess?" This was Artanis's unofficial nickname within the group, kindly given to her by Glorfindel and advertised by Maedhros.

"I think –" she began, her eyes beginning to sparkle.

Glorfindel scooted to sit next to her. "Yes, what do you think?"

She shoved him playfully. "I think that –"

"What do you think, _meleth_?" She blinked at his calling her such a private name in front of everyone, but she found that she was pleased by his obvious declaration of intimacy.

She tapped Glorfindel's nose. "I think that if I ever have children with you, they will probably be the bane of the island, with you as the father!"

The others howled with laughter, but Glorfindel leaned back and regarded her with passion in his green eyes, his expression one of pleased delight at Artanis's own declaration. Suddenly he reached out and kissed her, which caused the others to laugh even more. "Glorfindel, no need to conceive those children now!" breathed out Maedhros, in between peals of laughter.

Meril sniffed. "I say the sooner they start, the better." She gave them all a haughty look. "Noldor are more slow at making such things happen."

"Are you trying to say that you and Maglor have already started?" asked Ar-Kaliel, her eyes wide in mock amazement.

Meril leaned forward and gave the huntress a cool look. "I will only say that trial runs are in effect."

Maglor blushed furiously at this while his brother patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. "The Vanyar are more liberal when it comes to these things – nay, when it comes to all things. It would be best if you got used to it, little brother." Maedhros looked toward Artanis and Glorfindel, still completely immersed in their own private world. "In both words and actions."

Far away from the merriment of the little group, three brothers stood in Finwë's study. No words were exchanged, but the air of hostility remained thick enough to be mistaken for Ungoliant's own lair in Avathar.

All three had a strange relationship with one another. Fëanor and Fingolfin disliked each other for purely political reasons. Indeed, had either of them been born to different families, they most likely would have been friends. But the hostility between Fëanor and Finarfin was on a more personal level. Both brothers were on opposite sides of almost every issue, and they argued endlessly, with neither one of them ever conceding defeat. And between Fingolfin and Finarfin there was a coolness that was due to distance and a lack of interest toward each other.

But these quarrels appeared in adulthood. As children, all three had been on good terms. Although he had tried to hide his affection for Fingolfin and especially for Finarfin, Fëanor delighted in teaching them and playing with them. And both Fingolfin and Finarfin had always been in awe of their eldest brother, and both had willingly followed Fëanor almost everywhere.

But as they grew older, the realities of their positions began to hit them. Suddenly the word brother was replaced by half-brother, and when any of them said mother, they were careful to refer to Indis, or in Fëanor's case, to Miriel.

Fëanor grew bitter over the fact that Indis had enough strength to bear two children while Miriel had not had enough for one. Fingolfin grew angry at the fact that although his mother was the queen, Fëanor would always be Finwë's heir. Finarfin, ignored in the silent war between his elder brothers, simply distanced himself from them and went instead to Taniquetil. And over the years, these grievances had only multiplied, until now all three of them were completely blinded by them.

Fingolfin broke the silence. "Why have you called this meeting, Fëanor?"

"My father the king is dead. Now certain issues need to be addressed." Neither Fingolfin nor Finarfin missed the fact that Fëanor had said _my father_ instead of _our father_. And both were shocked when Fëanor sat down in Finwë's chair, a chair that had never before been occupied by any save the king.

"And perhaps you would be kind enough to tell us in advance?" requested Fingolfin, his civility at odds with the anger on his face.

Fëanor's eyes glittered. "Now that the king is dead, the kingship falls to me. I am now lord of the Noldor, and we must recover the Silmarils and avenge Finwë's death."

Finarfin broke out into laughter. "The king may be dead, but you are an unworthy successor!" He stepped closer, his voice menacing. "I know what you are going to do. You will try to convince our people to leave Valinor, to go to Middle Earth." Finarfin slammed his fist down on the table. "And I won't have it!"

"You won't have it! Who are you, to deny this?" He rose and began to walk toward Finarfin, his voice now as menacing as Finarfin's had been. "I am Fëanor, the son of Finwë and his true wife, Miriel Perindë." He continued to stalk Finarfin across the room. "I am the eldest of the princes of the Noldor, and by law, I am now king." His face now only inches away from Finarfin's, he whispered cruelly, "So you can have it, and you will have it." His eyes burned into Finarfin's blue ones.

But Finarfin had never feared Fëanor, and he did not now. Snarling back with equal anger, he shoved Fëanor away. "Finwë would never have allowed it! To do so would go against his wishes!"

Fëanor rolled his eyes. "Finwë never planned to be murdered by Morgoth, so I hardly think that is a valid argument."

"Chasing after Morgoth to avenge Finwë's death is acceptable! But for the Silmarils! You cannot expect that our people will die for those blasted jewels of yours!" This was Fingolfin, still standing next to the desk.

Fëanor turned his head to look at his other brother. "Do not ever call them that again," he threatened.

"Yes, do not, Fingolfin. After all, blasted jewels is too good of a name for those damned pieces of rock!"

A resounding slap echoed throughout the room, as Finarfin lay sprawled on the floor, a red hand mark on his cheek. Fëanor stood above him, his eyes still glittering. Within a second, Finarfin stood and hit his brother back, just as hard.

But instead of being angry, Fëanor only laughed. "Well, well, well. It appears that you have betrayed your lofty, Vanyarin ideals. Perhaps we are more alike than you know."

Staring at his hand in shock, since he had never hit anyone before, Finarfin said nothing. Instead Fingolfin responded for him. "You two can never be alike," he hissed.

"I beg your pardon, but I disagree." Fëanor stepped forward and cupped Finarfin's face in his hands and tenderly kissed the place he himself had hurt only moments ago. "We both love Nerwen."

Finarfin's head snapped up. "Do not bring my daughter into this!"

Fëanor released him and strolled back towards the desk. "Why should I not? She is what all of this is about, is it not?" he asked as he pointed to the identical red handprint on his own cheek. "After all, normally you do not show any interest in your own people anyway. You sit in Alqualondë and go fishing with those spineless Teleri, or you prattle on about the evils of anger with your Vanyarin idiots." Fëanor banged the desk with his hand. "But never have you evinced the slightest interest in your father's people! So forgive me if I find it hard to believe that you are now so suddenly concerned with their welfare!"

"Even if he is not, I am," growled Fingolfin. "And I cannot support you in this, Fëanor! Going to Middle Earth – it is simply mad!"

"How is it mad? We are prisoners here, o brother mine." Fëanor began to look frustrated. "We were born free on those ancient shores! But here we are in shackles!"

Finarfin glared at him. "The Valar brought us here to protect us from Melkor and his evil creatures."

Fëanor pointedly ignored him. "They make laws at their own will, and then they expect us to obey them! Who are they, to tell us how we must live! We are Eldar, the Quendi! We do not live by another's leave!"

"Fëanor, such words are treasonous! Dishonorable!" shouted Finarfin.

"Dishonorable? In whose eyes? Yours? The Vanyar's? The Valar's?" Fëanor shook his head. Finarfin tried to respond, but his voice was drowned out by Fëanor's. "Arda was meant to be our dominion. And I say we go back to it, to become our own masters! We are little more than servants here, but there, we would rule."

"You are wrong," protested Finarfin mutely.

Fëanor looked at his youngest brother, his eyes filled with pity and perhaps tenderness. "Am I?"

Finarfin looked to Fingolfin and saw that he too believed in some of the words of Fëanor. And in that moment, Finarfin knew that he had lost.

The next day was perhaps a day too terrible for all parties to be involved. Fëanor had claimed lordship of the Noldor, although many preferred Fingolfin as their king. But regardless of the technicalities, most Noldor were quite willing to leave Valinor.

Artanis had stood to the side as Fëanor and his sons had sworn their irrevocable oath. So moved was she by the moment that she too would have sworn the oath, if not for the tiny bit of caution within her. Fingolfin had argued against his brother, but each subsequent protest had grown weaker as Fëanor's orations had only grown stronger. Finarfin too had argued, but it was too no avail. And so now Fingolfin was obliged to follow Fëanor into Arda, since he too swore an oath to follow Fëanor, so very long ago at the feet of Manwë. Finarfin also agreed to go, but only because his children were.

But immediately after the meeting, her father had disappeared, Finrod had gone to Amarië, and her other brothers were off preparing, thus leaving Artanis alone. She hunted out Glorfindel, and they had made love desperately in a hidden glen outside Tirion. Afterwards, they lay there silently, involved in their own thoughts.

"I am going to Middle Earth," said Artanis, breaking the nighttime silence. They were currently stretched out in the grass, her head comfortably resting on his chest.

He stroked her hair. "I know." Silence, and then, "I saw you stand with your cousins. Your father was most grievously hurt."

"I wish he would understand." Lightly placing a kiss on his chest, she wrapped her arms more tightly around him. "I wish he would see that I am not going because I hate the Valar but because I believe that we are a free people, and that we are deserving of our own lands."

Glorfindel stroked her back. "My sister is not going."

Artanis expelled a breath. "Ar-Kaliel is one of the greatest of the Noldor. It is a loss for us." She looked at the stars sadly. "Both Maedhros and Maglor will be saddened."

"Neither Meril nor Amarië is going either," interrupted Glorfindel. "Elenwë is, but that is partially because of Idril. And anyway, at heart Elenwë is truly one of the Noldor."

"My brother will be grieved."

Glorfindel laughed without any humor. "Finrod is with Amarië now. I imagine there is fierce argument between them. And as for Meril, she is Ingwë's granddaughter, and she is a Lady of Tol Eressëa. Even if she wanted to go, she would be unable to."

She rested her elbows on his chest and looked down at him. "What about you?"

He looked back at her with grave, green eyes. "I am half Vanyar, Artanis. Just the thought of leaving Valinor and my family fills me with despair." Artanis looked hurt and was about to move away, but Glorfindel caught a hold of her arm. "But, the thought of you leaving me is even more unbearable, as is the thought of being separated from Turgon and Finrod."

Artanis held her breath as she asked, "Does that mean – I mean, will you," She shook her head in frustration. "What I mean to ask –"

Glorfindel pulled her back into his arms. "Yes, _meleth_. I will be going with you."

Much later, Fëanor sat in the now empty courtyard in Tirion. He had just come back from seeing Nerdanel, and long was their fight, and bitter was their separation. He had sent his sons on various errands, but he himself was rooted to the spot he had shouted from only a few hours ago.

A slight movement caught his eyes. Looking more closely, he saw that it was Nerwen walking down one of the deserted streets. He waved his hand in the air, and once he got her attention, he beckoned her over.

When she did finally come to him, he saw that her face was flushed, and upon closer inspection, her lips were slightly bruised and there were light marks near her neck – the telltale signs of lovemaking. "I see your time was well spent."

She shrugged. "Better to spend it as I will now, since I may not have the opportunity later."

He chuckled. "That is a wise answer." He patted the space next to her. "I am pleased to see that you will be accompanying us to Middle Earth." He looked at her closely. "Your dreams will finally be fulfilled."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps not." They sat silently for a while until she spoke again. "Your wishes will be fulfilled too."

Fëanor shook his head. "Nay, they will not be - at least not until I get my Silmarils back and destroy Morgoth." Again they lapsed into silence. "Nerwen, give me a strand of your hair." Although he had asked her once before, he hoped now she would respond differently.

But she did not. "I cannot."

"One day you will."

She shrugged again. "Perhaps. Or perhaps not." And he marveled at her then, for she had refused him twice, for no reason other than her own stubbornness. Her hair was becoming an obsession for him because it was denied to him. But as was his nature, he would keep asking. And as was her nature, she would keep refusing. Someday, one of them would have to give in.

Notes:

– On the language – The first versions of language among the Eldar used a P instead of a s. But over time, the Noldor adopted the s sound, while the Vanyar and Teleri retained the P sound. Fëanor, as a master linguist, insisted that P was actually correct, thereby at odds with the other Noldor, including Finwë himself. Fëanor's own mother, Miriel, used the P sound, and so in a way, it is conceivable that Fëanor was perhaps motivated also by that in his refusal to adhere to the s pronunciation. This is why Fëanor calls his mother Perindë, not Serindë. Galadriel herself used the s sound, and this was always a source of contention with them. (another note – someone pointed out to me that the symbol “P” is actually confusing. Unfortunately, I do not have any Elvish fonts, but the “P” is really a TH sound, not a P sound. So although I wrote Perindë, it’s really pronounced Therindë, although the symbol for the TH sound looks like a P.)

– There was a lot of talk in this chapter, but not much action. Next chapter, though, is the Kinslaying!


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

Author Note - *rubbing her hands together* To the Kinslaying and the burning of the ships at Losgar!

  
_Year 1496 of the Valian Years of the Trees… And the day dawned, with Fëanor at the hub of the universe, with the wheel poised to spin…._

“He left?!” roared Fingolfin. “What do you mean, he left?” The House of Fingolfin was currently gathered in the palace, in order to hear Fingon’s message.

Fingon flinched as he answered. “Fëanor has already begun the march to Alqualondë with his people. We must hurry, or we will not be able to catch up.”

“Why should we catch up with them? We will go at our own pace in our own time,” scoffed Turgon. He was just as unhappy with Fëanor as his father was, but unlike Fingolfin, he was not obligated by fraternal loyalty to curb his comments.

“Regardless of our own opinions, we are required to obey Fëanor’s summons. They are still our kin,” pointed out Aredhel acidly.

“You always considered those damned sons of Fëanor as your brothers, instead of the ones you already had,” snapped Turgon.

Fingon placed a hand on his brother’s shoulders. “Do not judge the sons by the father. For the most part, the sons of Fëanor are good friends, Brother.”

“This is foolhardy,” muttered Anairë as she turned to her husband. “Your brother is mad, both of them are mad.” She paused, glaring at her husband. “And now that I think about it, so are you.”

“Who is the greater fool? The mad fool or the fool who married him?” quipped Fingolfin.

Anarië said nothing for several moments, until she began to laugh. “My father said the exact same thing, Fingolfin. There must be some truth to it then.” Anairë was one of the beautiful women of the Noldor, with dark hair and gray eyes. Often she and her daughter were considered sisters, so alike in looks they were. But regardless of how much she resembled her headstrong daughter, Anarië shared none of Aredhel’s excitement over the journey. Why look to a rough and cruel land when Valinor was already their home? Yet Fingolfin was bound by the oath he had made his brother, and he would not allow his people to fall under Fëanor’s rule.

Fingolfin gave his wife a fond glance before addressing his children again. “Going back to the original topic, I find myself highly irritated at Fëanor. The least he could have done was tell us ahead of time.” He sighed. “We will leave tomorrow morning.”

“What about Uncle Finarfin?” asked Turgon.

Fingolfin smiled ruefully. “He will not be ready by tomorrow morning.”

Fingolfin was correct in his assumption that his younger brother would not be ready by the next morning, frankly because Finarfin himself did not want to leave. Finding delay at every possible excuse, he stretched his departure time to late afternoon on the next day. This in itself was odd, because Alqualondë was his family’s home, and out of all the brothers, Finarfin had very few possessions or people in Tirion. Yet Finarfin lingered in Finwë’s palace, until even his own wife lost patience with him. When they finally did depart, the House of Finarfin rode in a disorganized column, with Angrod and Aegnor at the head of it. Finrod was one of the last to depart, for he was reluctant to bid Amarië farewell.

Artanis, caught up in her own thoughts, rode in the middle of the column. Glorfindel, who would normally have been at her side, had departed earlier with Fingolfin’s family. But for once, Artanis was thankful for her solitude. Thoughts of the future disturbed her, for anytime she thought of it, she was filled with excitement tempered by dread. Fëanor’s words had stirred the submerged longing in her heart, the longing for great lands, for more freedom, and for power. Arda was something wholly new and undiscovered to them, and it would be theirs. But as much as she tried to stop it, Ingwë’s final farewell rang in her head.

_Arda is not as great a place as Fëanor claims. If this were so, than none of the firstborn would have left those shores. And if you will look carefully, you will see that those of the Noldor who were born under the twilight do not accompany you on your journey._

_Do not make the mistake of thinking you shall be masters of that land. Many of our sundered folk still dwell there, those of the Teleri, as well as many of the Avari. Fëanor will attempt to conquer them, but they are a proud folk and will not accept your dominion._

The High King’s words had filled her with foreboding, because now Arda did not seem as great as it had once been. It was filled with too much danger, too much unhappiness. Yet she was of the Noldor, and so she continued riding toward her home.

Three hours later, she came upon a sight that bemused her. Several of her kindred were in a battle. Many of Fëanor’s and Fingolfin’s people were fighting with the Teleri. For several moments, the people of Finarfin simply stared at the battle ahead of them. Next to Artanis, Aegnor and Finrod exchanged strange looks. _What was going on?_ How long they would have stood there none knew, because in the next moment, Eärwen emitted a loud shriek, took her husband’s knives, and ran forth into the battle. Turning back to regard her confused family, Eärwen shouted at them. “You idiots! Your family is killing mine, and all of you simply stand there!”

Spurred into action, the others immediately went forth into the battle, except Finarfin, who was bereft of weapons. Artanis left her family behind as she withdrew the Vanyarin daggers Ingwë had given to her several years ago. She found herself in a melee of confusion. Fëanor’s people were killing the Teleri, with only half of Fingolfin’s people aiding them. The other half was fighting Fëanor’s people. For Artanis, there was no question of sides now. Carefully maneuvering herself around dead bodies, which were new sights to her, she approached Fëanor and his sons…and was stopped when someone grabbed her and threw her on the ground.

It was a young male, one she vaguely recognized as the brother of one of her friends. “Traitor,” he hissed.

“I am no traitor!” she defended.

“Your family attacked us! Killed us!”

Shaken, because so far she did not know what had occurred, she slowly placed her knives on the ground. “My father’s House was not a part of this. You must believe me.” She nodded toward Celegorm. “They are my enemies as well.”

The youth narrowed his eyes at her. “Very well. But we will be watching. We can now only expect treachery from the Noldor.”

Artanis picked up her knives again and kept going forward. Many of the people she had grown up with now regarded her with hatred and mistrust. With every step she took, her anger solidified. When she approached the middle, where the fighting was the thickest, she began to attack Fëanor’s people systematically. Thanks to the teachings of the Vanyar, she was superior in combat.

And when it was all over, with the Teleri defeated, she walked around the city of her childhood, the swan haven. The bodies were already collected, but the blood still stained the white streets. Thankfully her grandfather had survived, as well as her mother’s brothers. Her father’s family had also survived, although many now wished Fëanor dead. Finarfin certainly did, and perhaps even Fingolfin.

But did she?

She certainly was angry with Fëanor. The Teleri were her kin, and he had destroyed her home. Many of her childhood acquaintances were dead. And death was something that she could not come to terms with just yet. It was another new thing, in this journey of new things. Trudging along the white stone paths, she found herself in one of the many gardens in the city. This was one of the places that had survived the rape of Alqualondë, for everything in the garden was untouched and innocent of the bloodshed that had occurred outside its gates.

Stopping at a fountain, where normally birds would drink, she looked down at her bloody and disheveled reflection. “I hate Fëanor,” she said to herself.

_Do you?_ asked her relfection.

Artanis sighed in frustration. “No, I do not hate him.”

_Is that so?_ The Reflection Artanis was smiling sadly now.

“No, I hate him because I cannot hate him.” The real Artanis was close to tears. “I hate him because although he is wrong, I still believe that he is right. That whenever I am with him, I feel content and blissful, and that all my troubles – such as my father, the journey to Arda, and Glorfindel – wash away like dirt in the rain.” She extended her hand and touched the surface of the water, yet the reflection still remained. “I am a traitor. That boy was right.”

She remained sitting in the garden for a long while, until Olwë found her a few hours later. Approaching her quietly, Olwë silently took a seat next to her. Although not acknowledging his presence, Artanis allowed herself to feel glad that he had not perished. In most ways, Olwë was dearer to her than Finwë had ever been.

“This garden is special to me. It is where I asked your grandmother to become my wife. I am glad to see that it has survived the past events.” It did not pass Artanis’s notice that Olwë had refused to say “Kinslaying” to her. “Artanis, you will find that it is always easier to destroy rather than to create. Fëanor and his people have destroyed in one day what took my people over ten years to build.” Keeping quiet, Artanis allowed herself to be pulled into her grandfather’s arms. “Oh little one, I am sorry that you had to choose. I wish your father had delayed longer in Tirion.”

She shook her head slightly. “No, Grandfather. The choice I made was the right one. Perhaps not the best one, but it was the right one.”

Olwë smiled wistfully. “You have much wisdom in you.” He patted her hair. “Mandos came by earlier.”

“Oh?” Although her voice was uninterested, she was brimming with curiosity. Rarely did Mandos interact with the Eldalië.

“He said some terrible things, things of the future. I will not repeat those words here in this hallowed place, but your father was very upset. Fingolfin was stoic as usual, and your uncle Fëanor found it funny enough to laugh.”

She traced the patterns on her dirty dress. “That is typical.”

Olwë stilled. “Artanis, your father will not be going to Arda. He will return to Tirion with those who are willing, and he will plead forgiveness from the Valar.”

“He will leave us alone?” she asked dully.

“You can stay,” Olwë pointed out gently.

She shook her head. “My place is not here. I can feel it.”

“Then who is it with?” asked her grandfather.

She pondered that question for a long while. Coming to no decision, she found her father’s tent and entered, in the hopes that she could change his mind. And she knew it was futile the second she glanced at his face. Finarfin was grieved, for many of his friends had died. Her mother was with her own family, and her brothers were scattered throughout Alqualondë. Deciding that the situation called for bluntness, she sat down in front of Finarfin. “Father, Grandfather Olwë has just told me that you will be remaining behind.”

He nodded. “That is so.”

“Why?”

Finarfin’s eyebrows shot up. “You ask me why? My eldest brother has just shown me that he is capable of the basest treachery. He is responsible for the death of many of our kin.” Finarfin stood up and poured water into two glasses. “Furthermore, Mandos has just threatened us. That once we leave, we become exiles.” He gave his daughter an incredulous look as he handed her a glass. “You ask me why?”

“All the more reason for you to go. Many of the Noldor still wish to go. They need you, Father,” she argued.

He laughed tonelessly. “They do not. After all, if my own children do not need me, I hardly think they do.”

“Father, please, reconsider. We are your people.” But even as she said these words, she knew that her father’s mind was made up.

“I have made my decision. My place is here…even if yours is not.” Artanis drew back. She and her father had reached their final impasse. Finarfin was choosing to leave his people. He was as much a traitor as she was. Indeed, as much as Fëanor was.

She stood and bowed. “I am sorry, Father.”

“For what?” Finarfin stood as well, so that father and daughter were eye to eye.

Artanis met his eyes. “I am sorry that you do not have the courage to face Fëanor, I am sorry that you are a coward with your people, and I am sorry that you must grovel at the feet of the Valar.”

Finarfin stiffened. “If that is the way you see it, it is I who am sorry, for your judgment is clearly swayed.” Turning from her, he flicked his hand in dismissal. “You may leave now.”

Although she did not know it, her next meeting with her father would be many hundreds of years later.

After leaving her father’s tent, she wandered around aimlessly, skillfully avoiding all who knew her. Eventually, a messenger from Fëanor tracked her down. “The lord wishes to see you,” was all the messenger had simply said.

She debated on whether or not to obey the summons, but deciding to hear what Fëanor would say, she trekked toward the docks, where she knew Fëanor and his people to be. Upon her arrival, she saw Celegorm and Amras. When they noticed her, they looked at her warily, as if they were afraid of what she would say. “Hello, cousins,” she said simply.

“Hello, Artanis,” said Amras carefully. Amras was the youngest of the grandchildren of Finwë, and it grieved her to see that he too had been involved in so much bloodshed. Barely out of his majority, he would never gain his lost innocence back.

Celegorm, perhaps impatient, simply asked, “Why have you come here, Artanis?” The unasked question remained in the air between them. _And whose side are you on?_

“I have come at the bidding of your father.” Amras pointed toward one the tents in the compound. Nodding her thanks, she walked to the tent. One of Fëanor’s people, a young woman and one of his most devoted vassals, rose at Artanis’s approach. The woman bowed and pulled back the flap of the then. Artanis entered and found it to be occupied by several people.

Fëanor was in the middle, and he was giving instructions on the loading of supplies on the boat. Curufin was also with him, as he mindlessly whittled on a piece of wood. She remained unnoticed for a while, until Curufin finally did notice, and after giving her a speculative glance, leaned toward his father and whispered something in his ear. Fëanor looked up at her and beckoned her forward.

“Ah, Nerwen,” said Fëanor. “Welcome.” Dismissing everyone else in the room, Fëanor waited until he and Artanis were alone before continuing. “I was concerned that you would not answer the summons.”

“That would have been very unlikely.”

He shrugged elegantly. “There was always the possibility.” He rose. “May I offer you something? Perhaps something to relieve your thirst?”

She shook her head. “Thank you but no. I have already partaken of drink with my father.”

His eyes sharpened at the mention of Finarfin. “I have heard that he will remain behind.”

“This is so.” She leaned back in her chair.

“And will you be remaining behind with him?” Fëanor regarded her steadily.

She shook her head again. “No. I will still be leaving.”

He gave her one of his predatory smiles. “I am glad then.”

Tired of the ritualistic conversation, she traded formality for her customary bluntness. “Why did you attack the Teleri?”

“Why is a question that is far deeper than its answer,” he replied cryptically.

Artanis narrowed her eyes. “Then please elaborate.” She deserved an answer, an honest answer, from the man who had so far both shaped and destroyed her life. “Why did you kill our kin, our unarmed kin?” Her voice was rising in a crescendo. “Why did you hurt everyone so?”

Fëanor gracefully sat down in front of her. “Nerwen, you may not see it now, but the attack on the Teleri, while tragic, was necessary.” He looked at her with some trace of sympathy – an unusual thing, for he was rarely sympathetic with anyone. “It was your kin that I killed, and I respect the fact that you chose to stand with them.” He tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “The Teleri would not give us their ships, and since we do not have the skill to construct them in so short a time, we had to take them. And the only way to take them was to kill those who stood in our way.” His eyes grew distant. “There is no stronger tie than that of blood. Not love. Not hate. But blood. The taste of it, the feel of it, the sight and smell of it as it spills . . . Or the flowing of it through your veins. There is nothing stronger.” His eyes became clear again. “I have bound all the Noldor to me, through the blood of today.” He chuckled at her distressed expression. “My actions have repulsed you, I know. I do not expect you to understand them. But I do hope that you will accept the necessity of them.” His voice hardened. “I will allow nothing to stand in the way of Melkor’s destruction, or the greatness of our people.”

“Killing people hardly adds to our greatness.” Acid coated her words.

“Does it matter, Nerwen, which path you take toward your destination?” Fëanor leaned forward. “As long as you get there?” Artanis was feeling desperation seep into her heart...as well as some sort of perverse agreement. Her feelings must have shown, for he laughed, an arrogant, triumphant sound that filled the tent. “You agree with me, although you hate yourself for it.” His eyes were flashing with pleased delight. “That is just as well. Just as long as you accept the truth in what I say.”

Struggling to maintain control of herself, she took a deep breath. “Why have you summoned me here? Was it to gloat, to prove that you have conquered me?”

He shook his head. “I have not conquered you, Nerwen. In fact, I am far from it. It is what I like best about you.” Smiling warmly for once, he rubbed his hands together. “Nerwen, you are a daughter of my heart, and you have proven to be the most worthy pupil.” He patted her shoulder. “Now, as you know, my House and I will be leaving tomorrow morning with the ships, as well as the goods of all the Houses.” He stood again and went toward his makeshift desk. “I would like it if you accompanied us tomorrow.”

She narrowed her eyes. Fëanor had assured Fingolfin that once he reached the shore, he would send the boats back. “You will not be sending the boats back, will you?”

“Nerwen, you have guessed correctly. I expect no less from you.” His smile one of pride, he nodded his agreement. “No, the boats will not be coming back.” He nimbly sat on his desk. “Fingolfin only half-heartedly supports this move to Arda. And if he is half-hearted, he will not fully support me.” Fëanor shrugged. “I do not want Fingolfin to create divisions among the Noldor once we get to Arda. It will weaken us in our coming fight with Melkor.”

“That is treachery,” hissed Artanis.

Fëanor waved that comment away. “This is not treachery, Nerwen. Only efficiency.” But Artanis was shaking her head. “You know that I am correct in my assumptions,” he said.

She glared at him. “Yes, I know you are correct. But that does not make it right.”

He gave her a look of disappointment. “Nerwen, doing the right thing will not always give you what you want.”

“I know.” She paused, and then, “I know.” She looked down into her lap, hiding her eyes from Fëanor, the one person who could read what was in them. Tears were currently welling in her eyes, and she did not want him to see them.

But he must have known, for he came to her and lifted her chin with his hand. “You are crying,” he marveled. “Why?”

“I am crying for the fate of the Eldar,” she lied.

“No,” he said, his voice hard. “You did not cry at the death of Finwë, nor did you cry at the rape of Alqualondë. If you cannot cry for those, then you cannot cry for our fate.”

Unable to keep the truth for him, she said honestly, “I am crying for you.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. “Many have shed tears over me. My wife, my sons, many of our people. But never has anyone shed tears for me.” He knelt at her feet, and had anyone walked in, they would have seen the greatest of the Eldar at the foot of a mere slip of a girl. Tenderly he reached forward and, capturing a teardrop on his finger, he licked the tear. “I possess many things of great value, but I have left them all behind me. Yet I have swallowed your tears, and I shall always have them inside me.” His own eyes glittered, and distantly Artanis realized that she was perhaps the only person ever to have seen him cry.

Fëanor touched his forehead to hers. “How special I am, for the woman who never weeps has wept for me.” He drew back, and his farewell was written in his eyes. “Will you not give me a strand of your hair, Nerwen, even as a parting gift?”

“I wish I could, but I cannot.” She gave him a sad smile. “Perhaps next time,” she said in an attempt at levity.

“Yes, next time,” he echoed.

When Artanis left, she realized she had no place to go. The two people who had controlled her life, Finarfin and Fëanor, were gone from her. After more wandering, she went to see Fingolfin, who, while he had never loved her like his brothers had, was perhaps the most honest with her.

He was alone in his tent, completely oblivious to the activity outside. It was interesting, that while Fëanor was going forward and Finarfin was going backwards, Fingolfin was content to remain where he was. When Artanis entered, he gave her a briefly surprised look, and then invited her to sit down. “This is the last place I was expecting you to be,” he remarked.

“It is the only place I wish to be, Uncle.” She attempted not to fidget. “My place is not with my father, nor with Fëanor.”

Fingolfin nodded, as if he expected her to say that. “That is understandable. Fëanor and Finarfin are both at opposing ends of philosophy.” He chuckled ruefully. “They are both extremists, although neither will acknowledge it.” A pause, and then, “If I may ask, why do you come to me then? Not that you are unwelcome,” he assured her.

“My father and Fëanor, even as they love me, seek to use me. I have always been a pawn between them, and I will not grant either of them that victory.” She sighed softly. “I refuse to follow their plans for me, even if it means sacrificing my own.”

He looked at her carefully, as if he suddenly understood why Artanis had come to him. “Those are not necessarily your only options, Artanis.”

She looked at him evenly. “Yes, I know. Which is why I have come here.” She took a deep breath. “I wish to pledge my loyalty to you, and I will recognize you as the head of the House of Finwë.” Her words were not insignificant, for she had said the House of Finwë, not the House of Fingolfin.

“You realize, Artanis, that as a member of my House, you shall fall under my dominion? And that I will also seek to control your fate? Not personally, of course, but perhaps politically.” His eyes were guarded.

“Yes, I understand that. I only expect that you be honest with me.” She kept her voice firm.

He nodded again. “And in return, you will benefit from my lordship.” He gave her another careful look. “It is a burden, Artanis, but it is also an opportunity.”

She inclined her head. “I agree – only on one condition.” At his nod of encouragement, she continued. “Any confidences that Fëanor or his House has made with me can never be known to you.” She spread her hands on her lap. “You will have my loyalty, of course, but I cannot break any vows of loyalty that I have made before.”

“Of course. I will not ask you to break any vows of honor.” But his eyes remained speculative.

She rose. “Then it is done.”

Fingolfin rose as well, and he kissed her on her forehead. “It is done,” he echoed, and then she departed.

She had added that final part for her own purposes. Fingolfin would be furious when he discovered his brother’s betrayal tomorrow, but he would have no way of knowing that he could have been forewarned by his own niece.

Artanis wondered what it was that had prevented her from telling Fingolfin that by this time tomorrow, there would be no ships for them. But Fëanor had told her, and perhaps he expected her to tell Fingolfin. At any rate, nothing could be done now anyway. The goods were already loaded on the ships, and they were fiercely guarded by Fëanor’s people. They could not be retrieved without more bloodshed.

There had been enough bloodshed already.

Three days later, Fëanor lay dying in the arms of Maedhros.

“Remember your oath, my sons.” The words came out with difficultly, strange, because Fëanor was a master with words.

“We shall not forget,” promised Maedhros.

Fëanor looked once again toward the awe-inspiring peaks of Thangorodrim. In a fit of insight, he knew that those walls would not be conquered by the will of the Noldor. Using his last ounce of strength, he tore off a thin gold chain that had a bright, green stone attached to it. Giving it to Maglor, he instructed, “Give this to Nerwen.” He paused for breath. “Tell her…tell her that I began the betrayal, but now she must end it.”

“She will hear those very same words from my lips, Father.” Maglor was holding back his own tears.

So it was, that Fëanor, the mightiest of the Eldalië save Ingwë, died. And as soon as his last breath left his body, he erupted in flames and turned to ashes. Fëanor scattered over the lands.

_A death that occurred at the height of Fëanor’s insight and power…almost god-like._

Author Notes:

\- The destruction of Alqualondë and the death of Fëanor are described quite well in the _Silmarillion_.

\- The green stone that Fëanor gave to Maglor for Galadriel is the Elfstone. It had quite a few possible histories, but I find it more poetic to have Fëanor make it (for an excellent alternate history of the Elfstone being made by Fëanor, you should refer to _Deborah’s A Very Fire)_.

 

 

\- I have made a slight deviation from the actual events in the _Silmarillion_. Finarfin and Fingolfin actually marched to the northern shores of Araman after the Kinslaying, which was where the Doom of Mandos took place. Then Fëanor sailed off with the ships and abandoned his brothers. But for the purposes of the story, I changed it so that the Doom of Mandos took place right after the Kinslaying, so that Finarfin could leave right after. I did this simply because the Finarfin that was created in this story is too honorable to continue following Fëanor after the massacre. Remember, Finarfin is the son-in-law of Olwë, the lord of the Teleri at Alqualondë. Having Finarfin follow Fëanor after the Kinslaying was too improbable for me, so I had to deviate from the actual tale. I do beg your forgiveness for this infraction.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

A Father's Wish - Chapter 5

By Watcherchild  


Author Note – Just a quick mention – I added an explanation for my deviation from the Silmarillion after the Kinslaying in Chapter 5. The explanation can be found at the bottom, in the notes section. On the reviews….I really appreciate them. Thanks!  


_Year 1496 of the Valian Years of the Trees…_   


Turgon and Elenwë were fighting. They had been fighting for quite a long while, yet both of them were stubborn, and they would continue fighting for the remainder of the night, if neither of them yielded.

Watching them from nearby, Artanis and Glorfindel sat on a log, with tiny Idril between them. “So whom do you think will triumph?” asked Glorfindel in his lazy voice.

Artanis smiled. “Turgon is taller.”

He laughed. “But Elenwë is more vocal. And she is prettier.”

“Mama always wins. Papa says he is helpless when Mama starts shouting,” piped Idril. Artanis was currently teaching the little girl how to braid hair. So far Idril had braided Glorfindel’s hair – very haphazardly – as well as the ribbons on Idril’s own dress. Now her current project was Artanis’s own hair. This was more challenging because Artanis’s hair was slightly wavy, unlike Glorfindel’s straight tresses.

After a few more painful moments for Artanis, Idril smiled in triumph. “I’m finished!” Beside Idril, Glorfindel’s shoulders shook in silent laughter.

Artanis carefully touched her hair. “It is very lovely, Idril. Why, after a little more practice, you will be ready to braid your own hair.”

“Really?” Idril was beaming with delight.

“Yes, really,” added Glorfindel. “Now, why don’t you go to your parents and show them your new skills?”

She hopped down from the log. “I’ll go right now!” With a wave, she was off toward her still quarrelling parents.

Artanis reached for her hair again but was stopped by Glorfindel. “If you ruin it, Idril will be heartbroken.” He wore a ridiculous grin.

“At least I look better than you!”

“Are you so sure?” he smirked, waggling his eyebrows.

She pushed him off the log.

Fingolfin stood near the shores, watching the fires in the distance. Near him stood Anairë, as silent as her husband. "I suppose we could swim across," she finally offered.

He looked at her, partially with amusement, partially with irritation. "You always were a poor swimmer." He looked back toward the fires. "I hope he dies over there," said he. "I will not even attend his funeral."

"Who says you will be invited?" she asked in an amused and pitiful tone.

Fingolfin gave his wife an exasperated glance. Early this morning they had all awoken to a strange reddish glow in the horizon, in the very direction that Fëanor had sailed the other day. It hadn't taken long to understand what had occurred, and for a few hours after that, Fingolfin had stalked around in such a black mood that other than his wife, no one would come near him, not even his own children. "I find it amazing that your mouth can still spew out sassy comments, even at such a time."

"You did marry me for my mouth," she reminded him breezily.

He smiled. "And a very fine and talented mouth it is, but be serious with me for a few moments."

Anairë sobered. "If you wish it." She hesitated. "Now what will happen?"

"There are no ships for us now. And swimming across the Belegaer is out of the question," Fingolfin gave his wife a pointed look. "Thus we shall have to journey across the Helcaraxë on foot."

"Are you trying to be humorous? Because that was never your strong point." She plopped down on the sand near her husband's feet.

He laughed dryly as he sat next to her. "I assure you, this is no joke." Anairë's very fine and talented mouth emitted no sounds. Giving his wife an impatient look, he continued. "We cannot return, Anairë. That is out of the question."

"Why?" she demanded.

"We will not humble ourselves!" His eyes turned fierce, and Anairë again noticed how much Fingolfin resembled his elder brother. "I will not scrape at the feet of the Valar and ask for forgiveness. I will not allow Finarfin to tell me that he was right, and I will not let Fëanor think that he has won." He stood again. "No, we will all go the Middle-Earth as planned."

Anairë remained seated. "Not all, Fingolfin." The words were uttered softly, and they floated in the breezes of the sea, almost too slight to be heard. Almost.

He paused in his pacing. "Are there more who will be going to Finarfin in Tirion?" Anger and irritation were shadowing his face again.

"Just one," she offered.

Relief swept through him. "One is fine. I had thought you meant many."

She smiled sadly. "No, only one."

He pulled her up. "Then that one will not be missed." He nuzzled her neck. "Who is this person?"

As the day slowly waned into the night – and this was rather hard to tell, since it had been dark all day – the Noldor gathered in the middle of the camp. All were silent as they listened to Fingolfin as he revealed his plan to them. Periodically, a few murmurs would break out, but for the most part, Fingolfin held their undivided attention. And when he was done speaking, most of the gathered Elves shouted their agreement, led by Ecthelion and Fingon. Some, more quiet in their speech, pleaded for caution. Among these were Glorfindel, Orodreth, and Edrahil.

Then Turgon came from the back of the crowd, and the people parted to let him through. Standing on the hastily erected platform, he turned his back on Fingon and faced the crowd. Unlike his more hotheaded brother, Turgon wished to wait and collect supplies before they made their crossing. “We cannot cross the Helcaraxë without the most rudimentary of supplies!” Beside him, Finrod nodded his agreement. “We have no food, no warm clothing, nothing! Since Fëanor stole all our belongings, are we to go to Middle-Earth empty-handed?” Turgon glared at his brother. “I do not know how charitable Morgoth will be when we get there and ask him for supplies!”

Fingon said nothing but only glared back at his brother. The two of them had been at odds since the Kinslaying. Fingon, whose actions preceded his thoughts most of the time, had gone ahead and taken the front of Fingolfin’s column to aid the Fëanorians when he saw his friend Maedhros under attack. But Turgon, who preferred to think before he used his sword, had remained behind and had instead aided the Teleri. The differences in their philosophy, which had always existed, now flourished under the stressful and angry atmosphere.

Turgon’s words caused another stir throughout the gathered Noldor, and now more were nodding their agreement. It was in this moment that Artanis, who had been strangely silent during the council, also stood on the platform and turned to look at Turgon. “My cousin has a valid point. We are not prepared to battle Morgoth as we are now.” Turning away from him, she looked to Fingolfin. “But the longer we wait, the more distance falls between us and Fëanor.”

Artanis raised her hands to her side. “We are now obligated to pursue them. We deserve justice. They have stolen our things, they have betrayed us! Fëanor and his people abandoned their own kind to the cruel shores of northern Valinor.” Her voice escalated in pitch. “Finwë was our king too! Are we not also entitled to vengeance?” Artanis looked at the crowd fiercely. “We are Noldor, and we do not cower in fear, not even in front of Morgoth himself! Let him see our might, and let Fëanor see our will! Both of them have tried to stop us, but we will prove them wrong!” She looked back to Turgon. “No, we are not ready. But in war, who is?” The crowd cheered in agreement, and after giving Artanis a look of wonder, Fingolfin stood and decreed that they would travel the next morning, as Turgon gave Artanis a disappointed and bitter look, while Fingon clapped her on the back.

Far away from them stood Aegnor and Angrod, as they observed the proceedings with troubled faces. “What game is Sister playing?” asked Angrod slowly.

“Two days ago, she and Father quarreled over Fëanor, and now she is denouncing the very same man she defended.” Aegnor looked worried. “And why is she now at Fingolfin’s right-hand? She has never taken any interest in him before.”

“I hope she out-manipulates them all.” The low voice came from Aredhel, who had slowly crept up on the brothers. Sitting on a rock next to them, she placed her chin in her hand. “Artanis was always clever.”

Aegnor shook his head. “But how long can cleverness last? She cannot hope to bend Fingolfin to her will.”

The princess laughed. “There is no need for her to do that. She will use him, just as my father will use her. And when the time comes, they will split and go their separate ways. They may even become enemies down the line.” Aredhel smiled again. “You have already seen how my father has benefited from Artanis today. Later on, Artanis will undoubtedly profit from him.” Another chuckle. “And she will probably come out the winner. She was always good at that.”

The brothers looked at each other uneasily. Now, more than ever, they missed Finarfin.

They began the march under the light of the last fruit of Telperion, the moon. Many called the rising of the moon an omen for the Noldor. Fingolfin blew his trumpets, as he alerted Valinor to their departure Valinor. The Noldor named Rána, for it traveled across the sky erratically.

But as soon as they left the more habitable shores of Araman, they began to realize the danger of the journey ahead. The Helcaraxë was called the Icefang by the Vanyar, and the Noldor themselves referred to it as the Grinding Ice. Huge glaciers and large ice banks floated on the icy seas, and many times, there would be miles of thin ice.

Fingolfin divided the Noldor into several sections, and they marched along in an irregular column that stretched for almost a mile. Fingon and Glorfindel remained ahead of them, as they ascertained the safety of the path ahead of them. However, Artanis and Finrod remained at the very end, in order to ensure there were no stragglers.

“I h-hate you,” muttered Finrod, his face an almost blue color.

Artanis smiled sweetly, but because her facial muscles were not working properly, it looked like a grimace. “You do not. You love me.”

“You overestimate your value,” he shot back. “And in any case, I will never forgive you. Turgon was right. We should have waited. But no, you had to convince everyone to go now.” He gave his sister an angry glance, although to Artanis, he looked like he was suffering indigestion. “And because of your dimwitted idea, we are all freezing to death!” Shouting had brought some color back to his face, and it relieved Artanis to see his skin regain some of its golden hue. “If I go to the Halls of Mandos as an ice cube, my spirit will escape and haunt you.”

She chuckled weekly, as if an escaping spirit from the Halls were possible, but otherwise remained silent. “Do you think Fingolfin will allow a fire tonight?” she asked instead. Because there were no trees in the frozen desert, the firewood that had been brought along on the journey was strictly rationed.

“I doubt it. Fingolfin has shown himself to be a miser lately.” Finrod pulled his cloak around him more tightly. “Although I can hardly blame him. We have quite a ways to go, and there are no shops on our road.” Noticing Artanis shivering, he opened his cloak slightly and wrapped an arm around her waist. “You are a silly bird. Why you refused a good, warm cloak is beyond my understanding."

Grateful for Finrod's body heat, she huddled closer. "This is a test, you see." Trying to keep her teeth from chattering, she continued. "If Fëanor were here, he would not need one."

"Fëanor traveled by ship and was surrounded by many warm fur cloaks," said Finrod dryly. "And besides, his temper would have sufficient enough to warm all our people."

"Older brothers always do know best, I suppose." She gave him a small smile. "But in any case, the cloak I refused can be used to warm someone else. We are part Vanyar, Finrod, and so we are more resilient than most of the others." The Vanyar, perhaps due to their builds, were a little more proficient at maintaining body heat, unlike their more pale and slender Noldorin and Telerin kin.

He kissed her head affectionately. "Being selfless – " Shouts from the front of the column prevented Finrod from finishing his sentence, as both of them craned their necks to see the source of the alarm. Running ahead, Finrod and Artanis could see the horrific sight of cold, icy waters crashing against the glacier they were walking on. As they drew closer and pushed their way through the crowd, they heard Fingolfin shouting and several others weeping.

The scene that greeted them was a strange one. Turgon was collapsed on the ground, sobbing on Glorfindel's shoulder, Idril was wailing in the arms of Fingon, and Ecthelion and Aredhel were carefully wading into the icy waters.

Artanis and Finrod exchanged puzzled glances before joining the others, and it was then that they noticed that Elenwë was nowhere to be seen. Normally she would have been with her husband and daughter. Understanding hit Artanis suddenly, and she grabbed Angrod, who was standing nearby.

"Elenwë?" was the only word she uttered.

"We could not save her," mourned Angrod. "We only managed to get Idril."

She placed a hand on Angrod's shoulder for support. Elenwë was the only Vanya in the journey, and she had defied not only the will of the Valar but also the will of her entire people, from the High King Ingwë down to Indis and Elenwë's own sister, Amarië – and only because of Turgon and Idril. The love that Elenwë had born for Turgon was so strong, it had surpassed even the love that she had for the Valar, which was no small thing for a Vanyar. Even Amarië and Indis had freely admitted that they owed more loyalty to the Valar and their tribe than their loved ones.

Finrod left Artanis's side and went to his weeping cousin. He and Glorfindel helped Turgon stand up, and they both whispered words of comfort to him. Artanis also stepped forward, but when Turgon looked up at her, something in his eyes made her recoil.

His eyes had gone from their usual warm gray to an icy color, and he became taut suddenly, almost as if he would pounce on her. Both Finrod and Glorfindel prepared to intervene, but after several tense moments, he turned from her and took his sobbing daughter from his brother's arms.

"Hush, little one. She is still with us, even if we cannot see her."

Many days later, the cold and hungry walkers finally came upon the last leg of their journey. The ice was not as ubiquitous, and they saw patches of green. And when they did reach the green lands of Middle-Earth, the darkness that they had been walking in suddenly brightened. A golden ball of flame rose in the east. "Look," murmured the company with renewed wonder. The Noldor named the golden sun Vása.

For the first time, Fingolfin unfurled his banners and blew his horns, thereby alerting Middle-Earth to their arrival.

Unbeknownst to them, Morgoth's fell creatures, fearing the newly created light, withdrew to Angband. Fingolfin and his host did no encounter any Orcs or evil animals. They marched straight to Dor Daedeloth, to the very gates of Angband, the feared fortress of Morgoth.

It was here that Fingolfin called another counsel, for Morgoth's silence was troubling, and as of yet, they had no news of the Fëanorians.

"We should withdraw," insisted Finrod. "Who knows what devilry Morgoth is concocting in those towers of his." Beside him, Turgon sat silently, for he had seldom spoken since the death of Elenwë.

"Morgoth is hiding in fear of us. We should take this opportunity and crush him – before Fëanor does." This came from Aredhel.

Fingolfin listened to the arguments carefully, but he also listened to the silences. Neither Turgon nor Artanis had said anything throughout the meeting, and he had always had difficulty reading their thoughts. After a while, he dismissed everyone until only Turgon and Artanis remained.

The muteness of both his son and his niece was deafening to his ears. Neither of them had spoken since that terrible accident. "I have kept you both here because I wish to hear your thoughts on this matter."

Turgon spoke first. "I agree with Finrod. We should leave. I trust not Morgoth's silence." His voice was raspy and low.

"Artanis?" Fingolfin gave his niece an expectant look.

She threw Turgon a swift glance. "I agree with Turgon in that we should leave. But my greater concern is on the whereabouts of Fëanor." She met her uncle's eyes. "We both know him well, and he should have been sitting at the gates."

"You suspect something has happened?" An unmistakable gleam appeared in Fingolfin's eyes,

"Yes," she offered. "But I know not what."

Fingolfin leaned back in his chair. "I agree with the both of you. I do not want to linger here any longer. I have seen the gates of Angband with my own eyes, and I know that the song of our trumpets can do nothing to our enemy except give them a dreadful earache." Fingolfin gave both of them a speculative look. "And I have heard reports from my scouts that the Fëanorians have settled near Lake Mithrim."

"Lake Mithrim?" queried Artanis. Now the light was in her eyes as well.

"Yes," he replied. "Back the way we came. Perhaps there we will find our answers." He rose, signaling an end to the conversation.

The next day they left Dor Daedeloth behind as they march east toward Hithlum. The journey was relatively quick, and they were within one day's march to the lake shore when Artanis received a summons from Fingolfin. These summons were not that unusual, for over the past several days, Fingolfin had elevated Artanis into the position of an advisor.

But when she arrived in his tent, she immediately saw that the circumstances were far from usual. "Ah, Artanis, I am glad that you have made haste."

"It is not my custom to tarry when my lord summons me." She tried not to let her impatience show on her face.

"You call me your lord. How interesting, under the circumstances." His eyes were very guarded.

"What circumstances?"

He took her by the elbow and seated her on a makeshift chair. "Earlier today I sent out scouts ahead of us." She nodded, for this was common knowledge. "However, they have come back with some news. News that effects the both of us." She remained silent.

"Artanis, Fëanor is dead." He kept his eyes on her face as he carefully watched her reaction.

Although shock, joy, and grief flooded through her all at once, she tried to keep her face composed. "How?"

Fingolfin poured a glass of a berry cordial for her, and distantly Artanis realized that Fingolfin must care at least a little for her, since he was giving her his most precious drink in order to sooth her nerves. "He arrived here and successfully battled the forces of Morgoth. But unsurprisingly, he went on toward Angband without waiting for reinforcements." He gave Artanis a sympathetic look. "He was killed by a Balrog."

She blinked in surprise. Balrogs were things of myth, things that the Eldar had never seen in Valinor. Arien had told her of Balrogs reluctantly, for such things were not spoken of in the land of the Valar.

Artanis looked at Fingolfin evenly. "So you are now king."

"That depends on Maedhros."

Unfortunately, they arrived at Lake Mithrim to discover that Maedhros was currently a guest of Morgoth. When Fingon heard this, he went pale, although he said naught in front of his brother.

Since Fingolfin's host was larger than Fëanor's, the Fëanorians withdrew to the southern shore of the lake, a tacit victory for Fingolfin's people.

But for Artanis, Fingon, and Aredhel, perhaps the only people among Fingolfin's host with a soft heart toward the Fëanorians, the distance between the now sundered people was keenly felt. That night, Fingon and Aredhel sought out Artanis, who, as expected, had been with Glorfindel. Under the pretense of a night ride, the three rode a safe distance into the forest in order for some privacy.

"Sister and I need to speak with you," said Fingon in a hushed voice.

Artanis, who had been spending her first truly relaxing moments with Glorfindel in many months, gave them an irritated look. "I am here, so speak."

Aredhel and Fingon exchanged looks once again, as if reconsidering their plan. But in a moment, Fingon spoke. "We wish to go to the southern shore of the lake."

"To the Sons of Fëanor," added Aredhel unnecessarily.

"Really?" she asked skeptically.

"Yes, really," snapped Fingon. "Or else we would not have pulled you from your lover's arms in the middle of the night."

Artanis pursed her lips. "And Fingolfin knows naught of this?"

Fingolfin's children looked uneasy. "No, he does not," murmured Aredhel. "He would consider this a large betrayal."

"Why do you wish to go there?" Since a peaceful night of sleep was out of the question, Artanis resignedly sat down on the mossy ground.

"Regardless of what has happened, it is not so easy for us to forget our friendships of old," said Fingon quietly. "I cannot forget the years I spent with Maedhros, nor can Aredhel forget the years she has spent with Celegorm."

Aredhel wrapped a slender arm around her cousin's shoulder. "How long can the Noldor be divided? Father will never admit it, but we need the House of Fëanor as our allies, especially since we know not if we will have the support of the Elves here. We cannot fight both the Fëanorians and Morgoth at the same time." Aredhel looked at Artanis pleadingly. "Maedhros is imprisoned in Thangorodrim. Surely your heart bleeds at least a little for him?"

Artanis reluctantly nodded. She did feel pained for Maedhros, who had been nothing but kind to her in Valinor. And there was still Fëanor himself to consider.

As if reading her thoughts, Fingon took the conversation one step further. "We need to find out what has happened from their own lips. You owe it to Fëanor."

"Some would say I owe him nothing, especially since I swore an oath of fealty to your father." She gave brother and sister a challenging look.

"But you also swore that you would not renege your past vows." At Artanis's surprised look, Fingon laughed humorlessly. "I am my father's heir – think you that I do not know these things?" She nodded reluctantly. "Anyway," continued Fingon, "we are asking you to come with us."

Artanis rubbed her temples, as a decidedly unwelcome headache overcame her. "If Fingolfin finds out, we will have a better time living in Angband," she warned.

Thus the three of them resolved to ride to the Fëanorian camp the next night. They left under the cover of darkness, again only saying they were going out for a nightly ride. Since the lake was very big, it was good ride before they approached the lights of the camp. When they finally did, a dark-haired guard approached them. "What matters bring you here?" His eyes were suspicious, for Fingolfin's people were the least likely visitors.

"We have come to see our kin," said Fingon pointedly. "Now, if you would be so kind as to direct us to them, we would be very much obliged."

Reluctantly giving his assent, he led them into the heart of the camp to a rather large tent. He opened the flaps and bowed. "They are inside." Nodding his thanks, Fingon entered first, then followed by his sister and cousin.

Inside, the remaining sons of Fëanor ceased in their conversation as they looked at their visitors in surprise. Maglor was the first to speak. "How very good it is to see all of you well," he said courteously.

"Likewise," said Aredhel just as civilly.

Artanis screamed mentally. Fingolfin had no idea that the three of them were here, Glorfindel was patiently waiting in his bed for her, Maedhros was imprisoned somewhere, Fëanor was dead, the kingship was in question, and Morgoth was preparing his army only miles away. And here they were, exchanging formalities as if nothing were out of the ordinary. "Stop it!" she shouted. Everyone looked at her in surprise. Taking a deep breath, she asked, "We came to hear about Fëanor and Maedhros."

The brothers exchanged sad looks as they launched into their tale. And when they were done, the three of them departed the camp and headed back toward Fingolfin's. But before they were even a mile away, Aredhel turned back. "I will follow in a little while, for I want to go back and see them for a while longer. Will you both make excuses for me?" It was hard to resist her pleading, and so Fingon gave in.

But a few more miles later, Fingon also stopped. “Artanis, I wish to ride alone for a while." Ever since hearing about Maedhros's capture, he had been very troubled. "Will you be able to manage on your own?"

"Of course," she nodded. "And the camp is only a few more miles away, and I am well-armed." So she bade Fingon goodbye and continued on her way.

Day was slowly rising, and Artanis suddenly realized just how long they had been gone. She flinched as she realized what she had to tell Glorfindel. _I will only be gone for a little while, meleth_ , she had said. The little while had stretched into the whole night. She only hoped that Glorfindel had not gone to Fingolfin.

But when she arrived at the camp, she saw that all was as it should be, with people now only slowly beginning to rise. She made her way to the tent she shared with Glorfindel and quietly made her way inside, so as not to disturb him. But just as she was about to remove her clothing, a low voice cut in. "Back so soon?" Artanis turned to see Glorfindel, fully dressed, perched on a chair. His face was unreadable.

"The sights were so lovely, I lost track of time," she replied cooly.

He nodded in agreement. "I thought so. After all, after a few hours of waiting, I assumed that you must have been completely mesmerized." Saying nothing, Artanis removed her riding clothes and drew out a fresh pair of leggings and a tunic. If the moment had not been so tense, he would have not even permitted her to get dressed.

Glorfindel left the chair and sat on the bed in front of her. "And of course, I was very worried for you. So I followed your trail – which you did not hide very well – and I found that it led to the southern shore." He placed his hands on her cheeks and forced her to meet his eyes. "But then I thought some more, you see. And I realized that only one thing was ever able to mesmerize you – Fëanor."

Artanis kept silent, and after a few moments, he released her. "The silence of a woman always did tell more than a flood of words." His voice was soft and regretful. "You went to the Sons of Fëanor, didn't you?"

"So what if I did?" Anger colored her voice. Who was Glorfindel to approve or disapprove of her actions?

But Glorfindel did not reply. Instead, he looked at her with grave disappointment in his sharp green eyes.

Three days later, Fingon finally returned with a very sick and injured Maedhros. And Fingolfin, although he disliked the sons of Fëanor, could not deny him medical care.

Fingolfin himself was torn between pride for his son's actions and anger at his son's disobedience. In the end, he praised his son in front of all the people, and from then on, people openly called Fingon "The Valiant."

It took several days for Maedhros to regain consciousness. During those days, a very harried Maglor also arrived in the camp, and neither he nor Fingon left Maedhros's bedside. Artanis would also sit with them, although she was often kept busy with her duties.

However, when Maedhros did finally awaken, she was summoned to his room, where he and Maglor were waiting. Maedhros, who was considered to be very beautiful, did not look his usual handsome self. His coppery locks lay flat on his head, and his skin was deathly pale. Additionally, his right hand was gone. Yet his eyes still retained a vestige of his old fire, and Artanis had hope that over time, Maedhros would return to being his normal self.

When she entered, he slowly raised his left hand and beckoned her closer. "Artanis," he rasped out.

"Maedhros," she replied, as she kissed him gently. "How do you feel?"

He gave her a weak smile. "Like my hand was cut off." She and Maglor chuckled at his attempt at humor. "Artanis," he said again. "Before our father died, he left a message for you."

Maglor placed a slender hand on her shoulder. "We were afraid that if we never saw you again, we would not be able to fulfill one of our father's last requests." Slowly, Maglor repeated the words Fëanor had uttered before his death.

When he finished, Artanis looked at both of them in confusion. "What does he mean? Which betrayal in particular does he speak of?"

"I do not know," admitted Maedhros. "He only asked that you end it."

"It is a burden he has placed on you, Artanis." Maglor's voice was regretful. "And for that, we are all sorry."

Maedhros pointed to a small wooden box set on a nearby table. "Open it, Artanis." She complied, and she withdrew a bright green stone. "My father created that stone, and he called it the Elessar. He always wore it around his neck." A pause, and then, "Artanis, he wished for you to have it."

She gaped at them. "What will I do with the Elessar?"

"I suspect that you will have to find out its uses. He has never told us." Maglor tied the necklace around Artanis's neck. "Keep it well, Artanis."

Afterwards, she blindly made her way to her tent, which was thankfully unoccupied. Once inside, she took of the necklace and set it on the table. It glowed with a light of its own, but unlike the Silmarils, the light was warm and rejuvenating.

She stared at it for a long while. What was she to do with that stone? Furthermore, should she even use it? She had seen what the Silmarils had done to Fëanor and his sons. Would the Elessar have the same effect on her?

Artanis looked away from its light. Perhaps this was Fëanor's way of binding her to him, in such a way that even death did not separate them. Hesitantly she looked back to the Elessar and took it in her hands. Fëanor created many things, yes, things of great beauty. He had created things of destruction as well, such as when he had made the swords. But it was easy for people to forget that Fëanor had also been a healer.

He had enjoyed repairing things and bringing them back to its original beauty. One time, he had come upon a dilapidated house in Aman, and he had insisted on fixing it, although no one lived there anymore. Fëanor had also loved to garden, something that most people did not know. He had enjoyed coaxing plants to grow, and he often modeled his creations on nature itself.

It seemed as if the Elessar was one of these creations.

But she could not wear it openly, not yet. With a rueful shake of her head, she tucked the Elessar under the collar of her tunic.

Notes:

\- On the the sun and the moon: According to the _Silmarillion_ , the Vanyar named the sun Anar the Fire-golden, and they named the moon Isil the Sheen. But the Noldor named the sun Vása the Heart of Fire, and they named the moon Rána the Wayward.

\- The moon was the product of Telperion, and Tilion, a huntsman in Oromë's company, was chosen to steer it in its course. It was the first to rise in the sky, just as Fingolfin left Valinor. The moon traversed the sky seven times, and it was very erractic in its path (which is why the Noldor called it Wayward). Then the sun, the last fruit of Laurelin, was finally prepared. Arien, a Maiar of fire, one of the few who had not been deceived into Melkor's service, was chosen to steer the sun. The sun rose just as Fingolfin and company arrived in Beleriand.

\- I have tried to fill in some of the gaps instead of focusing on the events Tolkien wrote about. For more details, refer to the Tolkien bible, the _Silmarillion_.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

Author Note - Ladies and gentlemen, I finally give you Celeborn…

 

_Year 1 of the First Age…_  
  
High in the mountains of Ered Wethrin, two Elves watched the Noldorin settlement near the shores of Lake Mithrim. The lord of Doriath, King Thingol, had sent them to observe their western brethren. The two of them had been there for an entire week, and so far, they had managed to remain undetected.

The older companion, fair and with brown-haired, contemplated on making their presence known. Next to him sat a younger Elf.

"For valiant warriors, they are not very good scouts, are they?" remarked the younger one in a very melodious voice.

"I suppose that they did not learn stealth and subtlety in Aman," admitted the elder. "But regardless, they are strong and courageous, and Thingol will need allies such as them."

The younger one looked back down toward the lake in consideration. "Can we go down and meet them now? I am tired of sitting on this mountain watching them from up here. And I would like to see their faces, to find out if it is true that the light of the Two Trees is reflected in their eyes."

The other nodded. "We will go, but not into the settlement. I do not know whether they ask questions first or later."

"So we have to wait for them to stumble over us?" The lovely voice stretched into a rater unlovely whine.

Down below, near the outskirts of the settlement, Fingon and Glorfindel were crouched on the ground as they examined the injured leg of one of their horses. The horses were very precious, for until they completed their breeding cycles, there were hardly enough mounts for everybody.

"Do you think she will be alright?" asked Fingon anxiously.

Glorfindel pursed his lips. "The knife wound is deep, but I have hope that over time, she will heal." He stood and wiped the blood off his hands. "Until then, she must not stress her leg."

"Which means I cannot use her in any upcoming skirmishes," finished Fingon. Glorfindel shook his head regretfully. "We need more horses. We do not have that many stallions, and only a very few more mares. And each mare will generally give birth to one foal at a time." Fingon sighed in frustration.

However, Glorfindel was not listening to him anymore. His dark blue eyes were instead trained on the forest near them. "Be quiet. I thought I saw someone."

"Don't be ridiculous, Glorfindel. We have sentries about. Maybe you saw one of them." Fingon gently patted the nose of the mare as he spoke soothingly to her.

But Glorfindel shook his head. "I am positive that he was not one of ours."

"Maybe it was a woman." Fingon still looked uninterested.

"What family would allow their daughters to wander about in such a dangerous area?" snapped Glorfindel. At Fingon's upraised eyebrows, Glorfindel nodded reluctantly. "I take that back - since both Artanis and Aredhel seem to wander around quite freely." Glorfindel looked back toward the forest. "But Fingon," he said as he returned to the original topic, "there is someone out there. I am sure of it."

Fingon sighed. "Fine, we will go and examine these phantom sightings of yours." The two friends armed themselves and also took with them Turgon, in case Glorfindel’s sighting had been real. The three of them spread out into the woods as they quietly tried to find the source of Glorfindel's alarm.

It was Turgon who found the intruders. He had cautiously entered a clearing to discover that two Elves already occupied it. When he caught sight of them, he simply stood there and gaped. The younger one cheerily waved. Behind Turgon, Glorfindel and Fingon also arrived, and they too stared at the strange Elves. The one that had waved said something that the Noldor did not understand, and finally, with a gesture of impatience, he repeated it. When the three of them still did not understand, the elder spoke in what sounded like a gentle reprimand. He spoke in a very old version of Quenya, so old that Fingon suspected that only the Vanyar would ever have been able to understand it. Thankfully, Glorfindel did, and he translated. "We have been waiting for you to find us for quite awhile,"

Fingon was the first to recover the use of his tongue. "Who are you?" Glorfindel kept translating.

"We were sent as emissaries from Thingol, King of Doriath. We wish to speak with your king." Apparently the older one was in charge.

Turgon nodded. "Of course," he assured them smoothly. "If you will follow me?"

Behind them walked Fingon and Glorfindel, and they whispered between themselves. "They do not look like phantoms to me," smirked Glorfindel. “So I suppose I do have the better eyesight.” Fingon cuffed his golden-haired friend on the head in response.

Fingolfin stared at the newcomers with barely restrained curiosity, and they responded in kind. Finally, they introduced themselves. "I am Galadhon," said the older one. He pointed to the other Elf. "He is my elder son, Galathil."

Fingolfin in turn introduced Turgon, Glorfindel, and Fingon to them. "You are emissaries of Thingol?" he asked once everyone except Fingon, Glorfindel, and the guests had cleared the room.

"Yes," confirmed Galadhon. "Furthermore, we are his kin, for I am his nephew." He waited until the implication sunk into Fingolfin.

"So you are kin of my brother Finarfin's children." Fingolfin quickly told him of Finarfin's marriage to Olwë's daughter. "I suppose you are also their uncle then."

Galadhon wore a pleased smile. "Yes, I believe I am. Certainly, Thingol will be pleased to hear of this development, for Olwë was beloved by both my father and my uncle."

"If I may ask a question, my lord king," began Galathil courteously. At Fingolfin's encouraging nod, he continued. "We noticed that a few of your people have golden hair. Have the Vanyar also come with you here?"

The king shook his head regretfully. “Only Noldor,” he admitted. "However, my younger brother and I are sons of Indis of the Vanyar, niece to the High King Ingwë."

"Ingwë?" echoed Galathil. Apparently Ingwë was also revered here.

Fingolfin nodded. "Yes. Indis is my mother, and very golden was her hair." He looked slightly regretful. "However, neither I nor my children inherited that hair color. Instead, my younger brother Finarfin and some of his children were born with the golden hair. My son Turgon also wedded a Vanya, and his daughter also is very golden." A flicker of pain crossed his face as he thought of Elenwë. Indicating Glorfindel, "Additionally, one of our finest warriors, Glorfindel, is half Vanyar."

"They have such lovely hair," murmued Galathil.

Galadhon gave the king a shrewd look. "Your elder brother, Fëanor. He does not descend from the same mother?" With a sigh, Fingolfin launched into the tale of Finwë and Miriel. When he was finished, Galadhon looked very thoughtful. “So why has the kingship passed to you rather than his eldest son?”

Fingolfin felt discomfited. If all the Sindar were as shrewd as Galadhon was, then the Noldor would have a harder time here than previously imagined. “The eldest, Maedhros, has forfeited the throne to me since I am the eldest of all the sons of Finwë.” He avoided mentioning the breach in the Houses, for that would lead to too many questions, and eventually, the Kinslaying.

Thankfully both of them accepted the explanation. “The king invites an emissary of yours to Doriath, King Fingolfin, so that he can learn more of your people.” Galadhon handed Fingolfin a sealed message. “He ensures the safety of whomever you do choose to send.”

“I have no doubts of his hospitality.”

Galadhon smiled. “That is excellent. However, if I may make a suggestion, I think that Thingol will be pleased if you send one of his newly discovered kinsmen. It has been many years since we have had word of Olwë.”

“Of course. I will consider which of my nephews will be the most suitable, and I shall send him back with you.” Fingolfin stood. “Until I do, I extend an invitation to you and your son to stay here.”

“We most appreciate it.” Galadhon clasped the king’s arm. “Now, if you could direct me to my nephews and niece. My son and I would be very pleased to meet them.”

“You are going to send Angrod?” asked Fingon with surprise. The two Sindar had been sent with Glorfindel to find Finarfin’s children. Now that father and son were alone, Fingolfin had immediately begun assessing the best possible choice.

“Well, other than one of Finarfin’s sons, I would not consider sending anyone else. The tie of blood may make Thingol slightly more receptive to us.”

Fingon stiffened. “We do not need Thingol.”

His father laughed. “I disagree. We do need Thingol. He has the only established realm that we know of. Furthermore, we need the support of the Sindar, and he is their lord.”

“But Angrod?” repeated Fingon. “Finrod would be a better choice, or better yet, Artanis.” Fingon looked thoughtful. “And now that I think of it, it seems that Artanis would be the best choice. She is a persuasive speaker, and as a bonus, she looks even less Noldorin than Finrod.”

Fingolfin patted his son’s shoulder. “Finrod is very soft-hearted, and I do not know if the king will attempt to sway his thoughts in another direction. Furthermore, Finrod thinks too much, and out of guilt he may tell Thingol about the Kinslaying. That is something we cannot afford, not just yet. We cannot fight a war on both fronts, with both Morgoth and Sindar. And as for Artanis – she is a card I do not wish to play yet.” His eyes glittered. “No, I am sure I will have other uses for her later.”

“Artanis is not a card, Father, and this is not a game.” Fingon’s voice was very soft.

“Oh, this is a game, Fingon. A game of chess, to be exact. We are all pieces on the board, my son.”

His son looked troubled. “I do not know if all will support you in the matter of being silent about the Kinslaying, Father. Not the sons of Fëanor, and not even Artanis herself.”

“I will deal with that when the time comes. For now, summon Angrod to me.”

Two days later, Angrod departed with Galadhon and Galathil. He had bid his family farewell, although he read worry in the eyes of his brothers and sister. But Angrod went with a confident heart, for Fingolfin had faith in him.

The two Sindar proved to be excellent companions, and while at first the language barrier was a problem, Angrod was Noldor, and so he had their gift for languages. Additionally, Sindarin and Telerin were similar to a certain degree.

They told Angrod of the Sindarin way of life. Lembas fascinated the young Noldo the most, and he eagerly looked forward to trying it. Additionally, the queen of Doriath also interested him. Melian had not been in Aman since she had met Thingol, and so none of the Eldar in Aman had ever even seen her. Among of all the Noldor, only Artanis had ever had any dealings with Melian’s sister, Arien.

Most of Angrod’s questions about Melian revolved around her enchantment that kept Doriath safe. Galadhon had proudly told him that no one could enter Doriath without the leave of the king or queen, so long as the enchantment was in place.

On the last leg of their journey, they finally came upon the River Sirion. To cross it, Galathil quickly fashioned a raft that would lead them to the borders of Doriath.

“You will soon see the majesty of Thingol’s power,” said Galathil as he navigated the raft down the river.

“Tell me, what does Menegroth look like?” Angrod asked the question idly, for most of his attention was devoted to the flora and fauna that they passed by.

Galadhon smiled. “Menegroth is a huge network of caves – one thousand of them.”

“Caves?” Now Galadhon had Angrod’s complete attention. “How can you bear to live in caves? Without any light?” Angrod, who had loved the Two Trees very much, could not contemplate living without light. Perhaps his newborn knowledge of Sindarin had mistakenly translated it.

But the Sindar smiled. “Yes, caves as you have never seen before. And not dark, but filled with light and beauty.”

Angrod was convinced that he did not understand properly. After all, for one who had spent many years near the Calacirya, cave and light were an oxymoron.

When the party of three landed, they were greeted by a group of warriors on horseback. Unlike the predominantly dark-haired Noldor, the golden-haired Vanyar, or the silver-haired Teleri, the Sindar seemed to be of every color. Some of the warriors had pale, blond hair, while others had dark or light hair. They also were a bit shorter and slightly more slender, and they seemed to have the ability to vanish into the trees.

The warriors escorted them further down the side of another river, the Esgaldiun, until they came upon a great hill in the middle of the forest. The river now flowed swiftly, and Angrod knew that no man or beast could cross the expanse alone. A great stone bridge was built over it, and it led to the gates of Thingol.

At the bridge, the warriors departed, leaving Galadhon, Galathil, and Angrod alone again. When Galadhon saw Angrod hesitate before stepping on the bridge, he reassured the young Noldo. “I have crossed this bridge many times, and it has not yet broken under my feet.” His eyes were twinkling gently, and Angrod found renewed courage. Before he stepped inside the gates, he took a deep breath.

Thingol was awaiting them.

Angrod found it easier to think of the king as Elwë Singollo rather than Elu Thingol, for still the Sindarin language was foreign to his tongue. So when he was finally brought in front of the king – and this took quite a while, since Angrod would linger and admire the caves – he addressed the king as he was called in the early days.

“My lord Elwë, I have come as an emissary of my king, Fingolfin son of Finwë.” In front of him sat the king, tall and with gray silver hair. Next to him sat Melian, whose beauty surpassed even the beauty of the Eldar. At Melian’s feet sat Luthien, who was so lovely that Angrod had stood for many moments gawking at her. Allowing his eyes to roam, they finally fell upon a tall silver-haired man of noble bearing. He was apparently very important, for he stood as the king’s side.

The king smiled at him. “I have left the name of Elwë behind me when I chose to remain in Middle-Earth. I am addressed as Elu Thingol now.” Thingol gave the Noldo an assessing gaze. “I see bits of my brother in you. Tell me, how is Olwë?”

“He is well, my lord, and he is king of the Teleri at Alqualondë, a sea city in Valinor.” That was technically the truth, since Olwë had not suffered any bodily harm during the Kinslaying.

“And your mother?” asked Melian kindly. Her voice was rich like Maglor’s.

Angrod answered as truthfully as he could. “She has remained behind with my father.” At least they had not asked why.

Thingol leaned forward on his throne. “And Finwë?”

Here Angrod internally flinched as he searched for ways to tell the king of Finwë’s death. Deciding that it was best perhaps to leave that topic, he only said, “Finwë is the father of three houses of the Noldor, and we revere him.”

“For him and the Trees alone would I ever consider leaving Middle-Earth. Finwë was a dear friend, and I miss him very much.” Thingol looked sad for a few moments. But then he focused again on Angrod. “There is much for us to speak of, of both your family, for I have great interest in them, and of the reasons for your arrival in Middle-Earth.” Thingol rose and came toward his grandnephew. “But you are weary from travel, and it would be unfair of me to pester you with my questions.”

Angrod inclined his head respectfully. “As you wish it, my lord king.”

Thingol beckoned the silver-haired man who had stood behind Thingol forward. “This is Celeborn, a kinsman of mine and therefore of yours.” Celeborn inclined his head politely. “He is the son of Galadhon and the brother of Galathil, both of whom you have already met. He will take you to your rooms, and he will fetch you for our evening meal.”

“My thanks to you, King Thingol.” Bowing gracefully, he followed Celeborn out of the throne room and into an expansive hallway.

Unlike his more talkative father and brothers, Celeborn spoke very little, although when he did, he spoke very politely and kindly. “Cousin, I will arrive in three hours time to escort you to our nightly meal. In a few moments, a warm bath and some food will be brought to you.” He led Angrod into the spacious suite. “Is there anything else you require?”

But Angrod did not answer that question. Instead, he gave Celeborn a long, piercing look. “You do not look very much like your father or your brother.” He cocked his head and gave Celeborn another perusal. “In fact, you look decidedly different from the rest of the Sindar. You are…taller.”

“Hence my name,” said Celeborn dryly. “I take after my mother, who came from the Ship Havens of the Sindar, where Cirdan is their lord.”

“That explains your hair,” exclaimed Angrod in delight. “And you also have sea blood in your veins! It appears you have more in common with us.”

Celeborn sat down in a chair. “So it is true, what they say of the Noldorin aptitude for language. You have become almost fluent in Sindarin in so short a time. Should you ever develop an accent, you could almost blend in.” Now Celeborn gave Angrod a thoughtful glance. “But I am afraid that we Sindar will pick up your Quenya more slowly, for only a few of us know the ancient tongue that was spoken at the Awakening.”

Angrod eagerly answered. “It is no problem for us, for we enjoy learning new languages. But it is the Teleri who have the beautiful voices. Tell me, do the Sindar also share this trait?”

“Yes, for most of us find it easier to sing than to speak.” Celeborn flashed a small smile. “We do not find speaking to be as sonorous.”

“You would have enjoyed debating with my Uncle Fëanor.” This slipped out before Angrod could stop it, and he cursed himself mentally.

Celeborn gave him a sympathetic look. “I have heard about his death, and I am sorry.”

Apparently Celeborn had thought that Fëanor was close to his nephews, which certainly had not been the case. “We all mourn his death,” said Angrod slowly. An outright lie. “But after his sons, my sister misses him the most. She was his student in Aman.”

“You must extend to her my deepest sorrow for her loss.” Angrod almost laughed. Artanis did not need sorrow. She used her grief like a weapon. Celeborn rose. “And now I must leave you, for I have to attend upon the king. But rest and refresh yourself for tonight.” With one last smile, the prince departed.

After leaving Angrod, Celeborn went back to Thingol, who was waiting for him. “Ah, Celeborn, tell me what you think of my new grandnephew?” He playfully hit Celeborn in the shoulder. “But do not worry, you have no cause for concern, for I like you more than him anyway.”

“Who says that I was concerned?” Celeborn took a seat in front of the king. Because his mother had died when Celeborn was very young, he had been left in Thingol’s care. Galadhon had taken Galathil everywhere with him, for Galathil was the oldest and was more like his father. Over the years of separation, Galadhon and Celeborn grew distant, and now they rarely interacted. It also did not help that he looked nothing like his father or brother. Instead, it had been Thingol who had taken over the role of father for the then young Celeborn. Great love had grown between the king and the prince, and many often viewed Celeborn as the son of Thingol.

“Have you spoken with Angrod?” asked the king as he returned to business.

Celeborn nodded. “Only about very general things. We spoke of language mostly.”

Thingol leaned forward. “Did you pick up anything strange with his behavior?”

“No, except when he mentioned his uncle Fëanor. Something changed in his demeanor, very subtlety, of course.”

The king looked thoughtful. “We will need to do more research on Fëanor. I sense that the unease I feel about the Noldor stems from him, although he himself has perished.”

“Angrod mentioned that I would have enjoyed talking to this Fëanor.” Celeborn tapped the edge of the table. “What could I have in common with a fearsome Noldo, who just happens to be very dead?”

Thingol laughed. “Perhaps more than you think.”

“Are you being foresighted again?” asked Celeborn with mock sternness.

“Yes.” However, Thingol looked very serious. “I am afraid for you, Celeborn. I sense that something involving you will happen soon.”

Celeborn shook his head ruefully. “With all due respect, I think that you should leave the foresight to the queen.”

Thingol smiled. “She is better at that, is she not?”

Dinner passed swiftly, and afterwards the king listened to Angrod’s tale. Thingol then dwelt on this matter for a few days, and just as Angrod was about to leave, he sent forth a message to Fingolfin and the rest of the Noldor. Angrod then took his leave of Thingol and his family, and he promised the send the rest of his siblings to Menegroth soon. Celeborn, who had become a friend in the past few days, gave him a bow and a quiver full of arrows. Angrod already had a set of his own, but the Sindarin one was superiorly crafted, so he was quite pleased to accept it.

Thingol sent a group of warriors to accompany him back because a lone traveler was sure to meet death in the many miles that separated Lake Mithrim and Doriath. The journey went by quickly, and as soon as they reached Hithlum, the Sindar turned back toward their home.

Upon Angrod’s arrival, Fingolfin called a meeting of the Noldor, including the Fëanorians. And after he had relayed his rather foreboding message, Caranthir managed to insult him so thoroughly that he had to leave the chamber in order to cool his temper.

So when he heard footsteps behind him, he assumed it was Finrod who had come to comfort him and perhaps persuade him to go back to the chamber. But when he looked up to see Artanis standing before him, surprise overcame him. Artanis rarely offered comfort to anyone, and she accepted it even less, except on occasion from Glorfindel or Finrod.

“Hello, Brother.” She nimbly perched on the log next to him. “It is getting rather intense in there, so I thought that I would join you outside.”

He wrapped an arm around her. “So it looks like Caranthir hates me too.”

“I suppose he is not that fond of our family.” This elicited a weak chuckle from Angrod.

“Have you resolved your problems with Turgon?”

Artanis sighed. “He is very angry with me, and he still refuses to speak with me. What is worse is that he hardly allows Idril to even come near me.” Her voice echoed with almost palpable misery.

He patted her knee with his other hand. “Whatever Turgon thinks, Elenwë’s death was not your fault. Yes, you also had a hand in our very rushed departure from Middle-Earth, but so did Fingon and several others. The mind of our people was made up long before you even spoke that day.” He allowed the cool breeze to caress his face. “And besides, even if we had left with an entire load of supplies, Elenwë still could have fallen through the ice.”

“Anger rarely allows logic,” she reminded him.

He shrugged. “True. But hopefully, over time, his anger toward you will dim.” He pulled his sister closer. “I think that the reason he bears so much anger toward you is because he really blames Fëanor. But since he is not here, and you were Fëanor’s student…well, as I said, over time his anger will cool.”

“Finrod and Glorfindel are concerned for him.”

He considered this. “Turgon was bound to Elenwë far more deeply than most married couples are wont. Her death not only took from him a friend and a wife, but also a very large part of his soul. He remains alive only because of Idril.” Angrod allowed worry to thread his words. “But he has withdrawn from the rest of us, and I fear that when he gets the opportunity, he will hide himself away.”

Twenty years later, Fingolfin threw a feast, the Mereth Aderthad, near Ivrin, the headwaters of the River Narog. Many people came, from as far away as Himring, where Maedhros had set up his fortress, as well as from the Falas, which was where Cirdan dwelt.

The feast also gave an opportunity for the cousins to reunite, for by now, all were scattered. Artanis dwelt in Tol Sirion with her brother Finrod, and they both had also answered Fingolfin's summons. But from Doriath only Daeron and Mablung, messengers of the king, came to Ivrin. However, it was a very merry occasion, and to most people, while they would never admit it aloud, Fëanor's promise of the wealth of Middle-Earth was true. For most of the princes of the Noldor had found their own realms to rule.

However, Artanis was unable to go forth and seek her own lands, primarily because Finrod constantly worried over her safety. And while Artanis loved her brother dearly, she found herself losing patience with him. If the truth were to be told, she was on par with Finrod when it came to arms. Since she had learned from Ingwë himself, very few could defeat her in combat. But still Finrod worried.

In these years, Artanis had dwelt apart from Glorfindel, who had chosen to live in Nevrast. He had done this very regretfully, but he had gone for the sake of Turgon, whose spirits were declining very rapidly. Nevertheless, Glorfindel and Artanis did see each other as often they could, but neither could be with the other for very long. Artanis rarely went to Nevrast, and Turgon almost never came to Tol Sirion. Thus Finrod and Glorfindel did all the traveling.

So when she saw Turgon before the feast, she hoped that now there could be a reconciliation. But even that was not to be, for as soon as he caught sight of her approaching him, he turned and went somewhere else.

His temper had not yet cooled.

Artanis, deciding that reconciliation was fruitless, left the banquet even before it had started and instead sought the privacy of the sheltered forest near the river. She sat for quite a long while, until she heard the low voice of Maedhros behind her. "You missed the meal." Sitting next to her, he handed her a plate filled with an odd assortment of food.

"Was my absence noticed?" Accepting the food gratefully, for she was rather hungry, she began sampling the different tidbits.

"Everyone noticed except Turgon, who pretended not to notice." He lay down on the grass. "And he did a very bad job of pretending."

She chuckled weakly. "I did not mean to seem childish."

He laughed, the lovely sound echoing in the woods. "You are the last person to be called childish. If anyone is being childish, it is Turgon." He propped his head up. "But anyway, I can sense that you do not want to speak about this, and frankly, neither do I. You have enough brothers to give you brotherly advice."

"Thank you for the offer, at any rate," she said dryly.

"You have many brothers, and so do I. At times, it can grow to be quite a headache." The starlight flickered on his pale and lovely face, and Artanis wondered if the shadow had left him.

She tapped his nose. "But you are the eldest, and they listen to you. I am the youngest, and a female at that." She sighed. "Our situations are slightly different."

He looked at her sympathetically. "Yes, I heard how Finrod panics every time you set foot outside his door."

Artanis chewed for a bit. "That is an understatement. I am lucky that I can approach the window. He fears that orc arrows will be aimed at me." Leaning forward and cupping water from the river into her hands, she drank. "It is rather strange, because he has never been like this before. I am not sure what has triggered it."

"I have an idea, but I really would rather not voice it." Artanis picked up his hidden meaning. Glorfindel had said something to Finrod.

"I need to get away, Maedhros, before I kill them." She was partially serious.

Maedhros grinned suddenly. "And that is what dispossessed, wild, and dangerous oldest half-cousins are for." He sat up. "Artanis, I think you should come to Himring with me."

"Himring?" she asked faintly.

"Yes," he nodded. "I think you would like it there, for the lands there are wild and beautiful. Furthermore, it will give you some space to get away from Finrod," and at Artanis's upraised eyebrows, he corrected, "I mean, to spend some time away from your very beloved brother. While you are there, you can take a look at more of Middle-Earth." He paused to remove a leaf that had fallen in his hair. "How much of Middle-Earth have you seen? Just the land that lies between Hithlum and Tol Sirion."

"But Himring is so very far away."

He nodded. "Yes, and that is why it is such a wonderful place. It is very dangerous, of course," he admitted. "But then again, you have never let that stop you." Maedhros leaned forward. "Beleriand is perhaps only one-sixth of Middle-Earth. Beyond Beleriand, beyond the Ered Luin, there are far more lands for us to discover."

She was very tempted. Tempted enough that if she stopped thinking for even a few moments, she would saddle her horse and be at Himring before Maedhros could even get up. But she could not, not yet. Something held her back. "I cannot go now, Maedhros, for I feel that I will be needed soon." At his disappointed look, she hastily added, "But I do hope you invitation is open-ended, for I will come to you in Himring soon."

He kissed her hand. "Good." Releasing her hand, he reached under the collar of her dress and pulled out the Elessar. "I take it that you have not yet told anybody of this?"

"No, for I really do not know what to say." She looked at it thoughtfully as it gleamed in his palm. "I wish I could wear it openly."

"I would not, just yet. Fingolfin will not take it well." That was his second understatement of the day. Fingolfin had forbidden anyone from displaying the works of Fëanor in his halls. Maedhros stood and proffered his hand. Dimly Artanis noticed that unless one looked at his missing hand, no one would notice anything different about him. He had healed quickly.

She grasped his left hand and allowed herself to be pulled up. "Thank you, Maedhros, for everything." Her expression said what she could not.

"My father loved you and cherished the fire inside you. He would never wish for it to go out." Kissing her gently, he then backed away and vanished back into the forest.

Three decades passed, and she spent those years dwelling with Finrod again. But she found many ways to make herself useful, from scouting to weaving. In the hustle of daily life, her greater concerns and worries were pushed back in her mind, as more little but no less pressing ones came forward, such as grain supply, weapon polishing, and house building.

So when Turgon arrived in Tol Sirion to seek Finrod, for a moment she forgot that she was supposed to be on uneasy terms with him. Quite instinctively, she embraced him and kissed his cheek as soon as he entered the house, just as she did with her brothers and cousins. Turgon replied to her greeting just as instinctively, for he kissed her as well. But the memories were not very far away, for within moments, his arms stiffened and he backed away from her.

Artanis, who had given Turgon more than enough time to get over this on his own, lost her patience. "Turgon, I find if hard to believe that you are my elder."

The insulted must have worked, for the gleam in his eyes appeared again. "This is not a childish matter."

"My point exactly!" She threw her hands in the air. "Now, I would appreciate it if we could get this done with, because we both cannot live delicately treading on your feelings!" She threw him an angry glance.

"Elenwë is dead, Artanis, and so I have no life worth living! You took that from me!" He obviously had not meant to say that, for in a second he looked very apologetic. "I should not have said that."

She looked away from him. "No, you should not have. But you cannot take those words back now." She turned from him. "I will go call Finrod."

He reached out to her with his hand. "Artanis, wait." She stopped in her tracks but did not turn. "I -I truly am very sorry. I really do not hold you responsible for her death. My anger is mostly at Fëanor."

So Angrod had been right, she mused. She turned very slightly and inclined her head. "Your apology is accepted, Turgon. Please sit down, and I will send refreshments to you."

"You remind me of her," he blurted out. Now Artanis turned around completely and stared at him incredulously. "Elenwë's hair was more golden than yours, but she was as tall as you and just as strong." His eyes turned wistful. "Idril does not remind me of Elenwë, although she should. But you and Elenwë were also alike in temperament, just as Idril is not." Turgon looked down. "Anytime I saw you, I would see Elenwë, and then I would curse at fate. And wish that it had been you had that fallen through the ice." He looked up again with damp eyes. "You should hate me."

She touched his cheek very gently. "I find that I do not. It is alright, Turgon."

Finrod chose that opportunity to burst through the doorway. "Turgon!" he cried joyfully, but he stopped when he saw that Artanis was with him. "Is everything alright?" he asked cautiously. "Because, you know, we really do not have to do this. I do not think Fingolfin approves of duels."

"No one is talking of duels, Brother." Artanis looked amused. "Now, I will leave you to your business, as I have some of my own elsewhere." She gave Turgon a last glance. "Goodbye, Turgon." He raised his hand in farewell.

"What was that about?" asked Finrod once his sister had left. "I fully expected you to be at each other's throats by now."

Turgon chuckled, and some of the ever-present grief seemed to leave his eyes. "She would have defeated me quite soundly." Embracing his friend, he spoke again. "I was hoping I could convince you to take a trip with me."

Interest danced on Finrod's face. "A journey? Where?"

"I thought that perhaps we could simply journey down the River Sirion. I find that I am getting tired of these mountains."

When Finrod returned from his journey, he was very troubled. Yet he would tell his sister naught of it. Often he would go wandering through the wild alone, with Artanis constantly worrying for his safety. Thus, when Finrod returned from his latest adventure as a vagabond, Artanis forced him to accept Thingol's latest invitation to Doriath. "I think it is time that we meet with Thingol," she reminded him. "He has even met Aegnor and Orodreth, and he already knows Angrod."

"Angrod did tell me it was beautiful," he admitted.

They packed that very night.

The pair arrived in Doriath two days later, and upon approaching the Girdle of Melian, a company of Sindarin warriors appeared and approached them. However, they were so taken with Finrod and Artanis's golden hair, that it took quite a while for them to actually enter Doriath.

Once inside, they were taken to the bridge above the River Esgalduin, and once they crossed it, another group of people led them into Menegroth. Finrod immediately stopped in his tracks and began examining the caves around them. "This is amazing, sister!" He lovingly ran his hands over the walls of stone.

"It is just a wall." Artanis patiently waited for someone to come and greet them. The people that had brought them into the city had disappeared, only saying for the pair to remain where they were.

"Just a wall? If I gave you a stonecutter's tools, could you carve this?" He looked quite indignant.

His sister shook her head in defeat. "No, but then again, I am not a stonecutter." Under her breath, she muttered, "And thank the Valar for that."

Finrod moved on to the pillars and columns while Artanis remained standing under a large overhang of carved stone. Within moments, however, she noticed a woman walking toward them. She was the most beautiful woman Artanis had ever seen. Tall with dark hair and pale skin, her features were so perfect that she resembled a Maiar.

The strange woman stopped in front of Artanis and gave her a friendly smile. "Greetings, Princess. I am Luthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian." She was partially a Maiar.

"It is a pleasure." Artanis allowed herself to accept the woman's embrace. "And this is my brother, Finrod," she said, as she pulled her brother away from the column he was studying.

Finrod only spared her a brief glance. "Very nice to meet you, Princess Luthien." He went back to examining the column. At Luthien's somewhat surprised and amused look, Artanis gathered that the beautiful princess was not used to being second-place to a stone column.

"Come this way, if you please," laughed Luthien. "My father awaits you quite eagerly." Noticing Finrod's long face, she patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Afterwards, I am sure he will be quite pleased to describe the specifics of Menegroth with you." He brightened and began following the women.

"We are very glad that you have come," said Luthien. "Father was very worried that you would never come visit him. Last month he threatened that he would go to Tol Sirion himself if he had too."

Artanis gave Luthien a look a surprise. "We had no idea that he wished to see us so much."

She shrugged elegantly. "We have heard much about you and your brother. That both of you are the fairest of the Noldor ever born, that Prince Finrod has a gentle heart, and that you have a fierce spirit."

"I wonder how I was labeled thusly."

"Fear not, Princess Artanis. Your reputation has not suffered here." Luthien paused in front of large wooden doors. Opening them, she led them inside where a few people sat around a table.

A gray-haired man, obviously the king, stood up. "Ah, I see that you have finally accepted my invitation." He approached them. "And I sent over twenty of them over the years." His gray eyes held a gentle reprimand.

Finrod had the decency to look regretful. "We are sorry, my lord, but we have been caught up in many things."

Thingol smiled at him, and then he turned to Artanis. "And you must be Eärwen's daughter." He examined her face very closely. "You resemble Olwë the most, for you have his eyes." He then reached up and touched her hair. "Your hair is different than Finrod's. It has a trace of silver. It reminds me of something…" he trailed off. Thingol turned back to Finrod and looked at his hair. "I have not seen hair your color since I parted with Ingwë and the Vanyar, at the shores of Cuivienen." Placing an arm around each of their shoulders, he led them to the table.

"So kind of you, Husband, to finally introduce us." The voice was chiding, and it came from a woman who resembled Luthien very much. It was undoubtedly Melian.

"Sorry," said Thingol. "My wife, Melian of the Maiar, and Queen of Doriath."

The queen stood elegantly and embraced both Artanis and Finrod. "Just Melian will do."

Artanis smiled back at the queen. Something about Melian made Artanis like her, although they had just met. "We are very glad to be here, Melian."

"And you must stay for a long time," said the queen. "I would like to speak of Aman with you, and have you tell me stories about Taniquetil, of Oromë, and the Two Trees."

Shadows swiftly crossed the faces of brother and sister. "We would be most pleased to, Melian." Artanis fought to control her racing heart. The Maiar could peer into the hearts of the Eldar, even if it was not with as much skill as the Valar. Could Melian read her heart?

Thankfully, Thingol began speaking again. "You have some kinsman here as well." He pointed to the three men standing a respectful distance away. " You have already met Galadhon, the son of Elmo and your mother's cousin, as well as Galathil his son. Celeborn is Galadhon's younger son, and he is my advisor." Finrod clasped their arms in greeting while Artanis only nodded politely to them.

"I think that you should send them for some rest, Father." Luthien gave Artanis and Finrod sympathetic looks, since both were travel-stained.

Thingol beckoned a servant over. "She will take you to your rooms, where you can rest. Then later, we can all speak more." Saying that, he sent his two guests away.

The months slowly passed by in Menegroth, for both Finrod and Artanis were kept occupied. Finrod found Thingol to be quite a good advisor, and upon the king's advice, Finrod had gone down to the River Narog and discovered a similar, if less extensive, network of caves.

Artanis, on the other hand, was squeezed for details about Valinor from Melian. Often Artanis would have to omit several details, for she had promised Fingolfin that she would not speak of the Kinslaying. In her spare time, Galathil would take her riding about the kingdom, while Luthien would sing with her. Since Artanis's voice was not in particular very fair, she often accompanied the princess on the harp or the lute.

However, her favorite companion was Celeborn, whose quiet ways appealed to her very much. They would engage in discussions that would last for hours or else simply sit silently in front of the fire. Unfortunately, as the advisor to the king, he was very busy, and so their meetings were very infrequent.

In the spring, Thingol held a large banquet, with Finrod and Artanis as his guests of honor. Preparations lasted for days, with everyone working tirelessly. Melian gifted Artanis with a gown a dark blue for the feast. "Your skin is slightly golden, so you will not look sallow in it." Artanis, who had always been reluctant at donning elaborate dresses, found herself to be quite pleased by this dress's simple lines.

The feast was excellent, and much singing and dancing followed. Unsurprisingly, Celeborn's very handsome brother Galathil was in the middle of all the festivities. Artanis, who found that she would rather sit and watch, instead went to Celeborn's side. He was standing at a balcony overlooking the gardens.

He was staring at something, so Artanis allowed her eyes to follow his gaze. A lovely woman was sitting beneath the branch of a tree. Slender and rather small, she seemed very delicate. "Linneth," Celeborn finally said. "Her name is Linneth."

"She is very beautiful," Artanis offered. She thought she detected a trace of the wistful in Celeborn's silver eyes.

"Yes, she is." He turned to look at his companion. "She is very much in love with my brother."

Artanis gave Celeborn a shrewd look. Was Celeborn also in love with this Linneth? "Does Galathil know?" she only asked.

He chuckled, and it sounded almost sorrowful. Taking her by the elbow, he led her back to the main hall. Angling Artanis slightly, he only said, "Does it seem so?"

Artanis followed his line of sight and saw what Celeborn was seeing, what he perhaps saw almost everyday. "I suppose not," she finally admitted.

A little distance away, Thingol secretly watched his adopted son and his grandniece. He had been wondering for many weeks what exactly Artanis's hair reminded him of.

Now he had his answer.

Laurelin and Telperion. Both of them were so tall, one as golden as the other was silver. And Thingol, who had forsaken the Trees but had not forgotten them, felt his heart warm at the sight in front of it.

Middle-Earth had its own Two Trees now.

Celeborn and Artanis stood silently for a while, as they kept observing the scene in front of them. He marveled at the woman next to him, for she was, without a doubt, perhaps the most interesting and yet most frightening woman he had ever met. With a sigh, he turned back and watched his brother, who stood surrounded by many beautiful women vying for his attention.

Celeborn spoke, his melodious voice floating in the air between them. “It seems that the entire female population of Doriath is entranced by him. Why is this so, Artanis? What is so fascinating about him?”

“He is wild, untamed, unrestrained,” she answered without hesitation. “Galathil is thrilling and animalistic, and perhaps, if they are lucky, they could tame him.”

Something in that deep voice of hers, in those expressive eyes, made him ask, “They? Not you?”

Her expression did not change as she shook her head, the golden tresses floating around her. “I admire control and restraint. Galathil has neither.” She glanced at him, her eyes flickering with something. “The hour grows late, and I must take my leave of you. Good night, my lord.” She inclined her head and walked away swiftly.

“Goodnight, my lady,” he softly called out behind her as he watched her stride away. Most women swayed when they walked, but not Artanis. She walked in her no-nonsense style, so that she could get to her destination as efficiently as possible. Control.

He smiled then. There were a hundred thousand ways of testing, of teasing control.

And a hundred thousand ways to break it.

He looked forward to trying every single one.

Some Notes:

\- I think the geography is a little strange in this story. But I tried to keep as true to the map of Beleriand in the _Silmarillion_ as possible.

\- I'm sure most of you realized that the trip Turgon and Finrod take is when Ulmo comes to them in their dreams:)

\- Elwë Singollo = Elu Thingol.

\- On Celeborn's family: Since Tolkien didn't say much about them, I thought I would take this opportunity…However, Elmo is the youngest brother of Elwë and Olwë. Elmo remained behind with Elwë (see the _Unfinished Tales_ ). Galadhon Elmo’s son, and he is also Celeborn's father, Galathil is Celeborn's sister, and Galathil's daughter is Nimloth, who will later marry Dior, Luthien's son. And then comes Elwing, etc.

\- Finally, on Galadriel and Celeborn: I could not find any exact dates on their marriage, and while the _Silmarillion_ seems to hint that they fell in love rather early in the age, I couldn't make it that easy for them (as if Galadriel would go to Doriath and fall into his waiting arms? I think not. Remember, this woman scared even Sauron, although that would be far later.)


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

Year63 of the First Age  


It was a very rainy day when Glorfindel arrived in Doriath. Since Finrod was busy with the construction of Nargorthrond, he had requested his golden-haired friend to come and see to his sister.

The golden-haired friend had been most pleased to do so.

Surprisingly, Thingol had made no objection to Glorfindel’s presence in his kingdom, but that mainly had to do with Glorfindel being part Vanyar. Apparently, Glorfindel’s father had been a close companion of Ingwë, as well as a good friend to Finwë and Thingol.

“So this is where you stay, hmm?” asked Glorfindel. Currently they were standing in Artanis’s suite. “It is unfortunate that Thingol gave me my own room.” He frowned. “I would rather have stayed with you.”

“The Sindar are unaccustomed to our ways,” was her only comment.

He turned to face her. “Will you not show me around? Finrod has been continuously babbling about Menegroth, and now he is bent on making a Menegroth of his own.”

She chuckled as she took his hand. “I never did imagine he would grow so fond of living in caves.” Leading him to a courtyard, she went towards a bench under a tree. “How long can you stay?”

Glorfindel stretched out his legs. “Not very long, I’m afraid. Two weeks at best.” He gave Artanis a sorrowful glance. “Turgon needs me.”

“Sometimes I think that you love Turgon more than me.” She playfully hit his shoulder.

“Good afternoon,” came a cultured voice from nearby. Artanis and Glorfindel turned to regard Luthien walking through the garden.

Artanis gave her a welcoming smile. “Luthien, I have someone I would like you to meet.” Gesturing to the man at her side, she introduced them to each other.

“I am very pleased to meet you, Princess.” Glorfindel looked at Luthien closely for a few moments before he released her from his gaze. A slight blush stained Luthien’s cheeks as she greeted Glorfindel in turn.

Once she had gone, Artanis turned back to Glorfindel. “You should not have flirted with the princess,” she chastised.

He smirked. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” she said impatiently. “But Thingol considers all princes of Middle-Earth to be beneath his daughter.” She gave him another look of warning. “So be careful, lest she begins to admire you.”

He shook his head. “I have no plans for that, so do not fear.” He smiled at her meltingly. “I have come only to see you, _meleth_.”

Two weeks later, Glorfindel did depart, and Artanis found that she was alone again. If it were not for Melian’s pleading, Artanis would have gone to her brother Finrod. But the queen was persuasive, and Artanis felt sorrowful for her, since Melian was in a self-imposed exile in Middle-Earth. However, Artanis did benefit from Melian’s tutoring. Melian was a repository of much knowledge, which she eagerly imparted to her young friend. From Melian, Artanis learned enchantments, as well as more complicated mind reading.

Nevertheless, Artanis grew impatient in the caves of Menegroth, and when she told this to Celeborn, he offered to show her the entire realm of Doriath.

“I have things I need to discuss with the council of one of the southern settlements, so if you wish, you can accompany me.” The offer had perhaps been offered only out of politeness, but Artanis accepted anyway.

They traveled south, although the journey progressed slowly, mostly because Celeborn took his time in showing Artanis hidden settlements and places of beauty. “But I was not born here, in Menegroth,” he mentioned one day as they journeyed yet to another town.

“Where then?” she asked with curiosity.

“Near the sea. She was of the sea-people, my mother. Her name was Eliriel.” Celeborn’s voice drifted off, and Artanis gave him a sympathetic look. Celeborn’s mother, who had been traveling to the Falas, had been the victim of a hungry wolf pack.

Artanis ventured forth with another question. “After your birth, did your mother come to Menegroth?”

He shook his head, the fine silver strands moving about in the breeze. “No, for she would not suffer to live in the caves for very long, even though Menegroth is very fair. So my father built a house for her in the eastern part of Doriath, near the Sirion River. She wanted to be near the water.”

“Is her house still there?” The questions were painfully personal, and under normal circumstances, Artanis would not have asked them. But the quiet forest around them seemed to lend an intimate atmosphere.

“My mother left her house to me, and when I grow tired of Menegroth,” and here his eyes twinkled at Artanis’s upraised eyebrows, “I dwell there for a time.” He gave Artanis a thoughtful look. “Perhaps, when we are done, you would like to see it?”

The prospect intrigued her, for this house was a place of Celeborn’s childhood. “I would be most delighted to,” she said in return. She thought that a pleased look crossed his face, but it was too brief for her to be sure.

After a few more days, Celeborn finished his business, and so they turned back east and headed to Celeborn’s house. It was hidden away in the forests, but since it was within the Girdle of Melian, it was well protected. Periodically they would cross paths with deer or other forest animals, and often it seemed as if the trees themselves would sway to make way for them.

Soon, Celeborn led her to a clearing. “There it is,” he said proudly.

Artanis looked around and saw no dwelling of any sort. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Yes,” he said as he gave her an amused look. “I have lived here for many years. This is my home, as Menegroth never was.”

“Then where is it? Or have you made it invisible, so that trespassers cannot disturb you?” The smug look on his face was beginning to annoy her.

He pointed to the trees above them. “Look up there, stone dweller.” Artanis gazed upwards and was greeted with the sight of an entire house built in the trees. “It is called a flet,” he answered in response to her unspoken question. “And it is very sturdy.”

She gaped. Somehow, in all her years here so far, she had missed seeing a flet before. “And you feel comfortable living up there?”

“Yes, for the trees provide a certain amount of safety that is missing when you are on the ground.” He placed her hand in the crook of his arm and led her to the base of the tree that housed the flet. “Would you like to see it inside?”

“I need to climb the tree?” She sounded slightly tremulous, a contrast to her normally firm voice.

Celeborn laughed. “How else will you get on top of it?” At her stricken look, he laughed even more. “Oh ye stone dwellers of the west!” He led her around to the other side of the tree. A narrow ladder made of some type of twine fell from the top. “We can go up this way.”

“How nice…”

After a few minutes of climbing, they reached the top of the tree. The entered through a doorway on a sturdy base of wood, and once inside, Artanis realized that the house actually encompassed four trees. Celeborn, noticing her amazement, added in a fond voice, “Just because she dwelt away from the city did not mean that she would live in squalor.”

“I was not thinking that,” she added defensively. “I just did not imagine the enormity of this complex.” Her voice softened. “But it is very lovely, Celeborn. I can see why she would wish to dwell here.”

“Do you?” He sounded pleased again.

Artanis toured the house. It was large and airy, with several rooms and even a small kitchen. “But she never lit fires here,” Celeborn later explained. “She only ate fruits and vegetables.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “And this is why the Noldor would not be able to bear living in trees. We need fires for our meat.”

The two of them remained in the flet for several days before finally leaving. Artanis spent much of that time wandering around the woods, and she was content to have Celeborn show her the way of forest life. Under his instruction, she learned how to walk steadily on the branches of trees, which she had done a bit of in Aman, but not on trees as large as the ones in Doriath. She began understanding the language of the forest, and she learned how to understand animals. Later on in her life she would reflect on how strange it was dor her to find such communion with nature in so short a time, while the rest of her family save Celegorm was still struggling to master more simple tasks.

Upon their return to Doriath, Thingol came running out to greet them, and she began to see how deep the relationship was between the king and his advisor. At times she saw herself in parallel to Celeborn. For had she not also grown distant from Finarfin and had instead followed Fëanor?

Yet unlike Finarfin, Galadhon did not mind Celeborn’s bond with Thingol. Indeed, the hunter seemed to welcome it. Later Galadhon had confided to Artanis that he was glad Celeborn had found a father, even though it had not been his natural one. “He never found what he needed in me,” he admitted to Artanis one day. “Thingol is a stronger presence, and that is what Celeborn needed. Galathil is the more charismatic one, but he is also the weaker one.”

“Strange, that two brothers are so unalike,” she mused. They were currently in one of Thingol’s gardens, slowly touring the intricate maze of hedges.

Galadhon raised his fine eyebrows. “Not so strange, for it is well known that there is discord between the sons of Finwë as well,” referring to the fact that Finarfin had not followed his brothers and that Fëanor had arrived before Fingolfin.

Artanis almost laughed, for Galadhon had no idea how much discord there had actually been. “Yes, there was,” she said carefully. “But in retrospect, my father and my uncles were more alike than they cared to admit. It was only a difference in degrees of philosophy among the three of them.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Galadhon took Artanis’s arm and started leading to her back to the palace. “I have some news for you,” he said suddenly.

“News is always welcomed,” smiled she.

“In most cases, yes, but in this instance, I find myself concerned.” Galadhon stopped and looked toward the palace. “Galathil has decided to wed Linneth.”

Understanding came to Artanis. “And you fear that they are ill-suited?”

He looked sorrowful. “Galathil is a good son, but I do not think that he will make a good husband. At times, he can be impatient and flighty, both traits that can lead to the downfall of a marriage. And Linneth – I do not think she understands what she is getting into. For her, marriage is like a romantic story, not at all filled with any hardships. She would be like a reed in the wind, too vulnerable to stand on her own.”

“But love can be a strong ally,” suggested Artanis.

“Perhaps,” nodded Galadhon, “but it is certainly not enough. Love and understanding must be hand-in-hand for a marriage to succeed. And while marriages can function without love, it certainly cannot function without understanding.”

Artanis was slightly reluctant to agree, so Galadhon continued. “If I may use you as an example?” at which Artanis inclined her head in agreement. “Do not take offense at this, for I say this with no malice. You and Glorfindel share love, that is evident to my eyes. Yet neither of you have taken steps to further your relationship. Why is this so?”

Slightly defensive, she answered, “The times we dwell in are harsh-”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “You are an intelligent woman, Princess. And you know as well as I do that things will only become worse with time, not better.” He gave her a piercing look. “But you know, deep in your heart, that you and Glorfindel are unsuited for each other. That is why you are able to accept such long distances and partings, without even a mental bond to comfort you. You both are holding yourselves back from each other.”

“You are right,” she finally admitted. As stubborn as she was, she would not deny the truth. “But the relationship serves us well for now.”

“There is nothing wrong with that,” said Galadhon. “For spiritual unions are not for everyone, and certainly not for every time.” He smiled at her sincerely. “And I do hope you find happiness, Princess, in whomever fate chooses for you.” His smile turned wistful, and it was apparent to Artanis that he was thinking of his long deceased wife. They began walking again, except now a peaceful silence had descended upon both of them. She strangely found herself missing her own father. Often they had engaged in discussions similar to the one she had just had with Galadhon. But now vast lands and the punishment of exile separated her from Finarfin.

When they approached the palace, they were intercepted by Celeborn himself, who seemed to be very weary. He bowed formally to both Galadhon and Artanis before speaking. “The king has summoned you, Father.”

“Then I must take my leave of you, Princess,” said Galadhon regretfully. “Celeborn can take you back.”

“I can get back on my own,” she said dryly. “I would rather not trouble Lord Celeborn.”

Celeborn shook his head, the silver strands catching the sun’s light. “It is no trouble, Princess.” Bowing again to his father, Celeborn took Artanis’s arm and led her inside. “I see that you have spent quality time with my father.”

Seeking for malice in his tone but finding none, she agreed with a nod of her head. “He is a very pleasant companion, your father.”

“Indeed, although I have not discovered this on my own yet.”

Seeing that this subject was not comfortable for Celeborn, she changed the subject. “I have heard of your brother’s impending marriage to the Lady Linneth.” But as soon as she said this, she cringed. This subject was not comfortable for Celeborn either. Inwardly cursing herself for her tactlessness, she sought a safer topic.

But Celeborn answered as politely as always. “It is good to see my brother getting married,” and although there was something sad in Celeborn’s eyes, he smiled anyway. “At least my grandfather’s blood will still continue.”

“Not through you?” she asked.

“Perhaps one day,” shrugged Celeborn. “But not now.” He gave her a small smile. “At any rate, I rarely have time for courting. I am always never here.” Stopping in the courtyard, he looked toward the sky. “I have only been back a few days, and already I am being sent out.”

Artanis, not fooled by his melancholy voice, gave him a fond glance. “You prefer it that way.” Allowing a more serious demeanor to slip into place, she questioned him further. “Where will you be going now?”

He arched his brow. “That is a secret.” He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “But it involves going north – near Himring, actually.”

“What will you be doing there?” At the expression on his face, she waved her question away. “Never mind – I can tell it is another one of your secrets. How many will be going with you? Can I also come?”

Celeborn shook his head regretfully. “I am afraid not, Princess. It is an information-gathering mission, so I must go alone. And to be frank, you would not fit in with the role of an intelligence-gatherer.”

“In other words, you are going to be a spy?” She gave him an incredulous look. “And who will you be spying on? And please do not tell me that it is a secret.”

“Our Silvan kindred. Thingol suspects some of them to be aiding Morgoth. Too many of our war parties have been ambushed as of late.”

Her eyes grew in alarm. “But if they discover you…Celeborn, you may die!”

He chuckled sadly. “Death is but another path that we must take.”

“At times, I would prefer you to be more foolish than wise,” she muttered. “I find that your words do not give me much comfort.”

“If it is comfort you seek…” his voice trailed off for a few seconds before picking up again. “I will be much reassured knowing that you will be thinking of me.”

Squeezing his hand, she only said, “Of that you have no doubt.” And when he left two days later, she sent forth a special prayer to Varda, that the light of her stars would guide the footsteps of her friend.

Finrod came back from Nargothrond – still being built – and with his new kingdom came a new name. Felagund he was called now, which he preferred to Finrod. Sitting with his sister, they had spoken softly of future plans, and she desired to go back with him and see his mighty halls. In addition, he told her about the Nauglamir, of how the dwarves had created a necklace of surpassing beauty for him. The necklace itself was set with stones that he himself had brought from Valinor. But another part of her wished to remain until Celeborn returned, so that she could see with her own eyes that her prayer had been answered. Finrod, who found this news to be unsettling, decided to wait with his sister.

Celeborn did return, and he was filled with new information that was eagerly relayed to King Thingol. Thingol, in turn, welcomed Celeborn back with wide-open arms. Artanis too was pleased to see him unharmed and was quite anxious to hear the stories of his travel from him, mainly because the idea of Celeborn as a spy was an intriguing one.

Thingol, pleased at Celeborn’s success, had a celebration in Celeborn’s honor. The celebration was especially merry, and both Finrod and Artanis would secretly laugh to themselves, for Thingol was fond of many large gatherings while Fingolfin was not as inclined.

As guests of honor, Artanis and Finrod sat near Thingol, with Melian, Luthien, and Celeborn seated nearby. Galadhon was also near, but Galathil was not even present, for he had chosen to remain near Linneth. But the conversation flowed as freely as the wine, and it was during one of these moments that Thingol turned to Artanis.

“Artanis, you never did tell me what you think of my kingdom.” The conversation around them stoppes, as all heads turned toward Artanis to hear her answer.

“You must be a great king, Lord Thingol, to have so many subjects, as well as the loyalty of so many good men,” she replied honestly, allowing her eyes to pass over Celeborn.

Thingol leaned back, a delighted smile on his face. “An excellent answer, Artanis. I can see why King Fingolfin does not wish to part with you.” Then Thingol’s attention was diverted elsewhere as someone else addressed him.

Finrod leaned forward to whisper to his sister. “What does he mean, that Fingolfin does not want to part with you?”

“What game is Fingolfin playing now?” asked Artanis in reply. “For it is obvious that he and Thingol have had discourse with each other.”

“Perhaps they are attempting to strengthen their alliance without losing supremacy,” suggested Finrod. “In any case, after we leave Doriath, we need to pay a visit to Fingolfin, and then we can find out what new plot is hatching in that clever mind of his.”

Notes:

\- The Noldor primarily dwelled in houses of stone, and they preferred the open fields ( _Silmarillion_ ). The Silvan Elves, and many of the Sindar as well, were the tree dwellers. Remember Lothlorien was primarily composed of Silvan and Sindar Elves. Rivendell, Lindon, Gondolin – these were Noldorin settlements, and they were actual buildings.

\- Felagund – the title of Finrod. Dwarvish for “hewer of caves.”

\- The Nauglamir was created by dwarves. Later Thingol would set a Silmaril in it, and the consequences of that were disasterous.

\- There is no actual timeline for the events in this chapter, so I’m a little free here. It is after Finrod and Turgon traveled down the Sirion but before the Dagor Aglareb (I found the references to when the Nauglamir was exactly created a little shady. Was it before or after the completion of Nargothrond?).


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

_Year 64 of the First Age_

Linneth was a beautiful bride. Small and slender, her dark hair glistened in the early morning sun, and her bright eyes sparkled with joy. Attired in a dress spun of soft silver silk, she stood next to her radiant husband. _Yes_ , Artanis reflected, _Linneth was surely the bride of anyone’s dreams_.

Even Celeborn’s.

Standing next to his father, Celeborn was watching the ceremony with veiled eyes, but Artanis could see how troubled he was by this union. A bittersweet aura surrounded him, perceptible to only those very few who knew him best. Watching him discretely, Artanis felt sorrowful for him as well as for Linneth. Linneth had allowed herself to be swept away by Galathil’s effusive charm, but she had missed the strength of Celeborn.

Artanis allowed her eyes to pass over Finrod, who stood strangely silent. He had received a missive from Fingolfin in the morning, and after the wedding festivities were over, he and Artanis were requested to return to Hithlum. Something in that missive had upset Finrod, but regardless of how much Artanis had pestered him, he would not reveal to her the message.

At times, Finrod’s lips were tighter than Fëanor’s vaults in Formenos had been.

Allowing her attention to shift back to the bride and groom, she allowed herself to feel a pang of sadness. Strange, that during joyous moments, she would find herself thinking of Fëanor. Even in death, Fëanor found ways to manifest himself in her life. He had made sure of that by leaving her the Elessar, just as he had been sure that Artanis would keep it. Briefly she wished that she had the will to give the stone away, or better yet, bury it under a rotting wolf carcass somewhere.

The ceremony was over now, and belatedly she realized that she should have paid more attention since people would undoubtedly ask her how the Sindarin wedding ceremonies differed from the Noldorin ones. She berated herself mentally. _And I cannot reply intelligently since I missed half the ceremony_. Finrod would answer those questions, then. Surely that fell under the duties of oldest brothers.

“Artanis,” called a fair voice. She turned to see Luthien beckoning her. Next to her stood Linneth, her pale cheeks flushed. “Will you not give blessings to the bride?” Luthien’s eyes were twinkling, a sign that some mischief was afoot.

“Indeed, for what other words can I give?” smiled Artanis. Leaning down, for Linneth was shorter than Artanis, she kissed both pale cheeks. “May you always walk in bliss.”

Linneth clasped Artanis’s hands. “And may you be blessed with the same.”

Luthien wrapped a slender arm around Linneth. “Perhaps she will, especially with such a handsome consort,” laughed the lovely princess.

“I think, princess, that it is you who needs to seek a consort,” retorted Artanis.

“I would have liked to meet one of the princes of the Vanyar,” replied Luthien dreamily. “I have heard that they have such lovely golden hair.” Glancing at Artanis guiltily, she amended, “As do your brothers.”

Artanis hid her smile behind her hand. “But my brothers are very annoying. If I were you, I would pursue one of the Vanyar.”

Linneth looked slightly confused. “But they are in Aman!”

“Never mind, Linneth! Worry about your own husband, who is approaching very rapidly now!” Luthien laughed merrily. Galathil was indeed approaching, and he wore the single-minded expression that only newlywed grooms could wear. “We will leave you now, Linneth! And do escape with him!” Leaving Linneth flushing, the pair entered the Halls. “This wedding has been good for my father,” commented Luthien as they made their way to the tables laden with food.

Artanis raised her brows. Luthien, seeing the skeptical look on her friend’s face, hurried to explain. “My father is weary of the never-ending darkness here. Doriath is fair, but he is well aware of the fact that if it were not for my mother, Doriath would not even exist as it does now.” Sending a discrete look to Thingol, Luthien continued. “He would have departed these shores long ago, if not for his people, most of which would remain.” Luthien gripped Artanis’s hand. “Ever since my father has set eyes on you and your brothers, the longing to go Valinor and live in peace has only increased within him. Olwë is there, and Elmo is waiting in the Halls of Mandos. And my mother…she has grown more melancholy. You are her only link to Valinor. If you left…” The princess drifted off, and then, “My parents, the only two of our people who have seen the Two Trees, take comfort from the fact that the light is reflected in your eyes.”

The golden-haired princess felt sorrowful for the king and queen as guilt surged through her as she was reminded of the Kinslaying again. Luthien placed her hands on Artanis’s cheeks. “Can you not stay? We are you kin. Surely you do not need to accompany your brother?”

“I must,” Artanis replied firmly. “I have a duty to my king, and he has asked me to attend to him. It is not a request I can refuse, Luthien.” Seeing the desolate look on her face, Artanis added gently, “But I will return here. Doriath is fair, and I enjoy living within its borders.”

Luthien nodded in acceptance. Then, changing the subject, she said, “I have heard that you are teaching Celeborn how to write in Quenya.”

“Yes, and he is a very good pupil.” That was an understatement, for Celeborn had rapidly learned Fëanor’s script. The Sindarin script was not as good as Fëanor’s, or even Rumil’s. Indeed, Sindarin script had evolved from the first written languages, before the Elves had even begun the Great Journey. That was why most of the histories of the Sindar were preserved in songs and paintings. “But as Celeborn has already pointed out, since Quenya is not understood by most of the Sindar, the letters will actually be used to represent Sindarin.”

“The idea of new letters is an exciting one. As soon as Celeborn is finished learning, he can teach me.” Artanis smiled at her enthusiasm.

It was then that Finrod swept in between the women. “Greetings, Princess,” he said as he bowed elegantly. “I am here to steal my sister from your company.”

“Of course, Lord Finrod.” Inclining her head prettily, the princess went to find another companion.

Once out of everyone’s earshot, Finrod began scolding his sister. “Artanis! Whatever impression you have made on the king and queen was perhaps too good! They put up quite a fuss when I told them that you would be accompanying me to Hithlum. Even now, the king is sending me malevolent looks!” Turning her head to see if he was correct, she saw that Thingol was indeed sending Finrod annoyed glances.

“If I wish to go with you, I will. But if I do not wish to go, I will not.” Deciding that her point was made, she eyed the dancing. “Will you not dance with me, Finrod?

He gave her a quizzical look. “If you wish it. But since when have you been dependent on your brother for a partner?”

“It is still early in the eve, yet already the music is making me restless.” Finrod said nothing but merely clasped her waist and led her into the throng of dancers.

From the other end of the Hall, Celeborn and Thingol watched brother and sister. After a few moments, Thingol commented, “They are a striking pair, are they not?”

“Indeed,” murmured Celeborn, his eyes on the tall golden forms of his distant cousins.

“I wonder what sort of upbringing they must have received in Valinor? They are akin to a pair of disreputable adventurers.”

Celeborn chuckled. “I would have thought the disreputable adventurers were the sons of Fëanor.”

Thingol shook his head. “No, the sons of Fëanor are just disreputable.” Thingol sipped his drink as he once again eyed his brother’s grandchildren. “Why do you think they are here, Celeborn? As much as I love them, I do not completely trust them.” Giving his advisor a close look, he asked, “Do you?”

“No, I do not,” admitted Celeborn truthfully. “I wish that I could. I can only speak of the Lady Artanis, for I have not spent as much time with Lord Finrod. But I have found the Lady Artanis to be honest and blunt in most matters - qualities that I admire greatly. Therefore, whatever secret she is harboring, she must be keeping it unwillingly, and it must be of great magnitude.”

“I will speak with Melian on this matter,” decided Thingol. “She is wiser than I, and perhaps she can lend us her wisdom.” Placing a gentle hand on Celeborn’s shoulder, he asked, “It is your brother’s wedding. Why do you not join the celebration?”

Celeborn adjusted the collar of his ceremonial robes, a habit that Thingol knew was a sign of Celeborn’s discomfort. “I find that the mood for celebration is eluding me.”

Thingol sighed. “You have always been silent, and you only speak when the need is great. These are qualities that I appreciate in my advisor, but I would not recommend them to the person who is like a son to me.” The king eyed Celeborn. “I have seen you stand aside in your brother’s courtship of Linneth. And while I am glad that you did not marry her, for I feel that she lacks the mettle to be your wife, you should have not allowed him to take her from you.”

“I can hardly protest if she confides to me that she loves my brother,” said Celeborn, a touch of bitterness shading his silvery voice.

“That is true, but perhaps she would not have even come to that conclusion if you had declared yourself first,” Thingol reminded him pointedly. “But what has happened has happened, and you must look to the future now.”

Celeborn turned to his king. “What do you mean?” Thingol was always direct with his kinsman, so his circuitous speaking was strange.

“Artanis and Finrod are leaving tomorrow,” Thingol said instead. “I do not wish them to go, especially Artanis.”

“King Fingolfin has summoned them, so they must go.” Celeborn allowed his eyes to shift back to Artanis. “Although I do not wish for her to leave either.” Thingol’s eyebrows shot up, and Celeborn gave him a rueful look. “She has been teaching me their written language.”

The king nodded. “Yes, I heard. A most challenging endeavor.”

Celeborn inclined his head. “That would normally be the case, but Lady Artanis is an excellent tutor. She has apparently learned the letters from the person who devised them.”

“Ahh, yes. Fëanor.” Thingol’s mouth tightened. “The Noldor are very tight-lipped about Fëanor.”

“Perhaps he is a criminal?” offered Celeborn as Thingol scoffed. _Criminal Eldar?_

 

That night, Celeborn was sitting in the library, located in one of Menegroth’s larger caves. Before, he had always assumed that the library was as any library should be, with scrolls and a large fireplace, many tables, and many oil lamps. But after listening to Artanis speak of the great libraries in Valinor, Celeborn had begun finding flaws in the library in Menegroth. Suddenly Thingol’s library did not seem like a library but a collection of poorly written books. And Celeborn, who had always fancied scholarly pursuits, found himself intrigued at the knowledge that the Noldor could provide.

Hence the reason for learning Quenya. Initially, he had felt slightly uncomfortable asking Artanis to teach him, but his pride over this matter gave way to his practically. Celeborn was no fool, and he recognized the fact that a culture could only thrive when its history was secure. And while songs were excellent ways of telling the past, too often minstrels would sensationalize the tale for the benefit of their listeners.

Sindarin writing as it was now was crude, and often people did not bother to learn it. Indeed, the Sindar living outside the kingdom would be hard pressed to read the writing of Doriath. But now the script of the Noldor offered the Sindar to unite through language. He had been truthful when he had told Artanis that the Sindar would never become masters in the language of Valinor, but the Sindar could learn Fëanor’s script and write Sindarin with it. The script was relatively simple, and it was extremely logical.

Certainly an opportunity that was waiting to be plucked.

His reverie was interrupted by none other than his tutor. She glided into the room with that strange grace of hers, finding a seat opposite him. They sat in silence, and Celeborn allowed himself to observe her.

She would never be an Elf of the moonlight, as Linneth certainly was. Instead, it was the firelight that seemed to reflect off her hair and give her skin an even warmer glow than usual. And sometimes, he would imagine that he saw the flames mirrored in those bright eyes of hers.

“Are you brooding, Lord?” She asked this with no hint of teasing or malice. Indeed, she seemed entirely serious.

“Yes, for I find that in my busy life, I have scarce time to spend on brooding,” he answered with equal gravity.

She nodded her approval. “It is a good habit.” Another comfortable silence, and then, “I have heard that when people brood together, it is even more rewarding.”

He looked thoughtful. “I can see why that would be so, but I suspect that it also depends on the company.” He gave Artanis a smile that bordered on shy. “The present company is certainly rewarding.” He shifted in his chair. “When will you be leaving tomorrow?”

“Dawn. We must make haste, for we have tarried long here.” Artanis folded her hands across her lap. “It will be strange to go back to Hithlum and Tol Sirion. I have dwelt here for so many years that I too have been ensnared by the comfort and safety of Doriath.”

“Will you come back?”

She shrugged elegantly. “I may or may not. It depends on my king.” He noticed that she avoiding looking at the fire. “It is a warm night. Why do you sit in front of the hearth?”

“If you have any other suggestions as to where I can sit, please do not hesitate to tell me.”

Artanis gave him a briefly amused look. “I would be pleased if you would walk with me outside.” Celeborn nodded his assent and offered her his arm, which she accepted. Once they made their way outside, he felt the tension drain out of her arm. “Celeborn, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you. It is rather delicate, so I would appreciate your discretion.”

He eyed her cautiously. “You have it, my lady.”

“My presence here disturbs you, does it not?”

Celeborn nodded unashamedly. “While we are glad to see our kin from Valinor, we perceive that something has happened. More details would reassure us.”

Artanis nodded, her eyes holding that disturbing gleam again. “There are some things that we have no control over, Celeborn.” She focused her eyes on him. “I have no control over this.”

Puzzled by her words, he only said, “I understand.”

“I think that you do not, but for now, I will say no more on this matter.” She turned away from him to examine one of the trellises. “These are lovely flowers. What are they called?” She bent down to examine it more closely.

“They have no name, but the queen has grown them herself. She says it is a species from Valinor.” It was then that he noticed a slightly glowing green stone visible on her neck that had been revealed when she bent down. Curiosity filled him once again, for he had never seen such a gem before. “Artanis, what jewelry is it that you wear?”

He must have startled her, for she straightened in surprise. Adjusting her neckline once again, she said curtly, “It was a gift.” Her tone brooked no further conversation on this subject, and he inferred that the stone must have been a gift from Glorfindel. “I must seek rest now, for I must rise early tomorrow.” She inclined her head formally.

“Of course. I bid you a pleasant night, Lady.” Celeborn watched as Artanis walked away, and then he sat down, troubled. Artanis was beginning to disturb him.

 

  
Fingolfin watched his niece from the corner of his eye. She and Finrod had arrived late last night, and immediately upon entering the fortress, they had sought their beds. This morning both had arrived to the table, seemingly fresh and in good spirits, to join Fingolfin and Fingon for the morning meal. Finrod chatted about the constuction of Nargothrond, about the dwarves, and even about his new horse.

Artanis remained silent.

“Artanis, it has been long since we have last seen each other. Your brother has much to say of the years he was away from us. Have you nothing to add?” Fingolfin gazed at his niece evenly.

“Time in Doriath goes slowly, so I did very few things of substance.” Artanis met her uncle’s gaze while Finrod shot her a strange look.

The king nodded. “Fair enough.” Moving his plate aside, he said, “And that is why I have called you here. To give you something to do.” He turned his head to look at Fingon and Finrod. “If both of you would kindly excuse us? I wish to speak with Artanis privately.” The two cousins shared uneasy looks before they rose and exited.

When they were finally alone, Fingolfin turned back toward Artanis. “You have spent much time with Thingol and Melian, and undoubtedly you have gained wisdom from them.”

"I have learned things, yes."

"There is a province, to the south of Thargelion, that needs to be settled."

She leaned back in her chair. "Near Caranthir's lands?"

The king nodded. "Yes, in Ossiriand. I feel uncomfortable with only the sons of Fëanor in the east. It would reassure me if I had one of my own people there. And since Fingon is occupied here, and Turgon is at Nevrast...and of course, Finrod has Nargothrond."

Artanis's looked thoughtful. "But my other brothers?"

"Your brothers are vassals to Finrod. You would be mine." He sipped his drink as he watched his niece.

"You could simply have me wed one of the sons of Fëanor."

Fingolfin allowed himself a tiny smile. "Yes, I could ask you to do that - and I have no doubt that you would do so. But unless you truly wish to wed one of them, I find myself reluctant to force you into the everlasting bond of marriage, bound as you are to Glorfindel."

"But I am not bound to him, Uncle, and I do not think I ever shall be."

"Then I can count on you to make such a sacrifice when I need it?" Artanis nodded, and he continued in relief, "You may leave whenever you wish, but I would recommend that you wait a few years." He leaned forward. "We have had reports that Morgoth will be preparing war against us soon. We have lulled him into a false sense of security by making him think that we are not interested in war at the moment."

Her eyes sharpened. "You expect him to send his forces against you?"

Fingolfin nodded again. "Yes, and I know he will not be able to resist." He bared his teeth in a feral smile. "And we will be ready."  


 

While Fingolfin waited for the inevitable battle, Artanis found herself missing Doriath. She had wished herself to be back in the midst of the action, but now here, she discovered that peace was far more soothing - even if it was an unreal peace. But nevertheless, she received letters from Melian, Luthien, and even Celeborn. Melian's letters were always filled with advice and wisdom while Luthien wrote of gossip and the silly events that had transpired since Galathil's wedding. Celeborn would write of no topic in particular, yet she found his letters to be the most engaging. She had written back to him and had confessed that she missed Doriath. Celeborn had responded by saying that she was welcome back anytime. Furthermore, he offered her the use of his mother's house, in case she wished to dwell in Doriath but not in Menegroth.

A very tempting offer. But she was too ambitious, and she could foresee the rewards of finally obtaining her own lands. Fingolfin had kept true to his words, so many years ago on the bloody shores of Alqualondë.  


 

The battle came as Fingolfin expected it would, but he was ready in the west, and Maedhros was prepared in the east. Artanis's brothers pursued the Orcs that had strayed into Beleriand, while the forces of Fingolfin and Maedhros surrounded the main host and chased them back to Angband. It was a successful battle, the Dagor Aglareb, but the Noldorin warmasters understood the hidden meaning in their victory - that Morgoth was growing in his wiles, and soon he would think of something else.

Later, Fingolfin told her that although Morgoth was trapped inside his fortress, it could not be breached. "It is surrounded by the mountains on either side, and we have not the means to cross them. So he will dwell in security for a while longer, until he ventures forth again."

Artanis remained in Hithlum for several years after the Dagor Aglareb, and she would often travel between her brother's realm and Fingolfin's. She would even go to Nevrast occasionally and visit with Glorfindel, Turgon, and Idril. It was in these days that she decided to return to Doriath and visit with her friends again.

The truth came out at the worst possible moment. During the evening meal, a messenger burst into the dining hall and whispered words into the king’s ear, and then the king had dropped his goblet of wine all over his tunic.

What had transpired afterwards was not a pleasant memory.

Thingol had asked Artanis and her brothers to leave, which they had done immediately. Afterwards, Galadhon had pulled Artanis aside and told her that the king would calm down and that his rage was directed towards the actual kinslayers.

They left Menegroth before the rest of the population found out, since Thingol would not have been able to guarantee the safety of his western kin. Brothers and sister rode west toward the Sirion, and from there they would ride north to Hithlum.

But upon reaching the Sirion, Artanis parted from her brothers. “Why?” demanded Finrod. “Did you not heard Thingol? The Sindar will be down upon us within hours, Artanis!”

“Yes, but I must wait for Celeborn and tell him myself.” Celeborn had gone to Cirdan at the Falas, and he was due to return today, and she was sure that he would stop by his house.

“Celeborn!” Finrod shook his sister’s shoulders. “Have you gone daft?” Artanis opened her mouth to protest, but Finrod would not allow it. “I do not care if you have bonded with him, Artanis. It is my command that you come with me.”

She pushed her brother away. “You cannot command me.”

Finrod looked at Artanis sternly. “I am the head of our house.”

“But I am under Fingolfin’s dominion, not yours.”

Orodreth stepped in between them. “Artanis, why is it that you wish to stay?” He had always been the more peaceful of the brothers, the most like Finarfin.

She turned to her other brothers. “He is my only friend in these lands, and he deserves to hear the truth from me.” She looked back to Finrod. “I owe it to him that he hears it from my lips rather than more malicious ones. My honor demands it.”

Finrod refused to look at her. “Then do as you will.” He swung back onto the saddle. “The rest of us will ride on.” Aegnor and Angrod followed, disappointed expressions on their faces. Only Orodreth lingered, as he embraced Artanis goodbye.

“Do be careful, Artanis.”

 

 

That night, Artanis was impatiently waiting in the flet for Celeborn. She was also frightened of what he would say when she told him of the Kinslaying. She only hoped that he had not heard it elsewhere.

So when she finally heard the anticipated hoof beats outside, she bolted through the door, and then slowed her pace to appear more dignified. However, when Celeborn approached the house and slowed his horse’s gait, she forgot all about dignity as she ran forward. He was down immediately, and within seconds, he embraced her.

“I am so glad that you are back!” exclaimed Artanis joyfully, but the expression in his eyes brought her up short. Celeborn examined her with an eerie scrutiny, and no affection reached out to her, despite his embrace. In fact, his arms closed on her in a restrictive way as if he sought to hold her in place while he studied her. She noted with misgivings the hard line of his mouth and the flinty set of his jaw. Something dark and disturbing was emanating from him, and distantly she realized that she had never seen this expression or mood on him. Indeed, for a horrible instant, she felt as if she had never seen this man before. “What is it?” she asked with foreboding. _He knew…_

After Celeborn left, she sat for many hours in front of the fire. Her arms still throbbed where Finrod had grabbed her, yet she found the pain to be comforting, for it assured her that she was still alive. Nothing else inside her flickered with life, as she sat motionless in a chair. Even thoughts were not possible. Only Celeborn’s words echoed in her mind. You are a traitor. This was the second time she had been called a traitor. Idly she wondered when the third time would be.

She could not stay in Doriath, that was for certain. When the word spread, the Sindar would be very angry, and their anger would first fall to her. And while they probably would not harm her physically, due to her status as Thingol’s grandniece, it would still be very unpleasant. And of course there was Celeborn himself…His anger and disappointment would be unbearable a second time. Briefly she considered that just, but she shook off that thought. After all, whatever she was, she had not been an unwilling participant.

But where could she go? Finrod had problems of his own, for Thingol would be furious with him. Her other brothers were off in the wilderness somewhere. Turgon was in hiding, and Glorfindel was with him. Fingon was an option, but that would mean that she would have to be near Fingolfin as well.

The irrational part of her partially blamed Fingolfin.

Only one option remained for her: the sons of Fëanor. Maedhros had promised that she would be welcome in Himring any time. Besides, she had to go the east anyway, to Ossiriand. And while she would have to undertake the long and dangerous journey on her own, it was better than staying at home.

In front of her, the fire crackled. _Yes, go to Himring. Go to Maedhros. Use the Elessar._

“I will not stay here.” Kneeling in front of the fire, she put her hand in the flames, but strangely, the fire did not hurt her. Instead, it seemed to warmly embrace her hand. On her chest, the Elessar was glowing brightly. “I will go to Himring.”

Author Notes:

\- The Dagor Aglareb was the third battle in the Wars of Beleriand.

\- The timeline might be a little strange. Sorry.

\- Celeborn wasn’t always wise, and he is entitled to some anger. Frankly, the typical depiction of him being calm all the time disturbs me. He should be entitled to some anger when he discovers our favorite heroine lied. I would be.

\- Thargelion was Caranthir’s realm, and it was to the north of Ossiriand (can I say Green Elves?).

\- Galathil is Nimloth’s father. Nimloth will later marry Dior, Luthien’s son.

 

Next Chapter : Maedhros talks to a mouse, Galadriel finds unexpected allies in the east, and Celeborn gets into trouble with his dad. Oh, and Glaurung the Dragon meets Fingon. It’s a typical day in Beleriand.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

_Year 90 of the First Age_

Swiftly Artanis made her way over the countryside, and other than stopping for rest every once in a while, she kept going east. She crossed the River Aros straight into Himlad, and rode straight through the plains. Many times she had to take alternate routes in order to avoid Orc parties or wolf packs. But in a few days, she was within sight of the lone hill, which stood tall and mighty in the plains around it.

As soon as she approached, a group of warriors came toward her. The captain looked slightly familiar to her, although she did not know his name. However, he recognized her, and after a few moments of gaping at her, he led her up the hill and into the fortress. “Wait here, Lady,” he requested as they had dismounted inside the great gates of wood and stone. “I will summon the lord.”

Around Artanis people scurried about in work, although some would occasionally pause and look at her. Yet no one stopped to speak with her. Fortunately, her wait was very short, for Maedhros burst through the doorway. “Artanis!” he embraced her with a smile of delight. “You sent no word on your arrival.” He stepped back from her and examined her carefully, noticing the exhausted face and dull eyes. Taking her hand gently, he led her inside. “Although this is no palace, I will have a comfortable room prepared for you. You will surely want to take a bath and rest?” He rubbed her back comfortingly. “Then I will await you for dinner.”

“Thank you Maedhros.” Giving him a grateful smile, she followed a servant into one of the rooms. And while the room she was given was far from luxurious, it had a bed and a closet. That was enough for her. Quickly cleaning up and donning fresh clothes, she went back out and found Maedhros waiting for her in the hall. Taking the arm he offered her, she allowed him to lead her into the library.

“We can have a quiet meal here, for the dining halls are filled with many people,” was his only explanation. He pulled out a chair for her, and then he took his own seat. Artanis took this time to examine her cousin in more detail. His copper hair lay braided down his back, and his face bore a small scar. His lovely eyes were shadowed.

She reached across the table and took his hand. “How have you been, Maedhros?”

“We have been having problems with our supply lines. Generally, Caranthir sends us goods from Thargelion, but as of late, more Orc parties have been swarming our usual routes, so it seems that we need to find alternate ones.” He squeezed her hand. “But you did not come here in the middle of the night to ask me that.” He looked at her carefully, his eyes shrewd but kind. “How did Fingolfin allow you to come here without an escort?”

“He does not know that I came here,” she said, her eyes averted.

Maedhros chuckled. “Unannounced trips do seem to be your specialty,” he agreed as he undoubtedly thought of her tendency to leave without telling anyone.

“Maedhros, they know of the Kinslaying.”

He stiffened. Finally, “Fingolfin will have much to answer for now.” He turned away from her. “Did Thingol tell you to leave Doriath?”

She shook her head. “I have not seen him.”

Her cousin came to her and lifted her chin with his hand. “Were you put out?” he asked gently.

“Not in so many words…”

His hand dropped and clenched at his side. “What happened, Artanis?” He stood in front of the fire. “Tell me everything.” Slowly she told him all that had transpired since the horrible banquet in Menegroth. With each successive minute, Maedhros grew only more furious. “I have apparently given Thingol credit for more wisdom than he apparently deserves,” he said tightly when she was finished. “And the audacity of this Celeborn, to think that you were a Kinslayer! To accuse you of such a base manipulation!”

“I did not tell him otherwise…”

“Why not?” She looked at him patiently until understanding crossed his face. “Of course, I see. After all, he is unlikely to see a difference between the accusation of manipulation and the truth of opportunism.” Maedhros fell into a chair. “I suppose this was to be expected. After all, the Kinslaying could not have been a secret forever.”

She rubbed her temples wearily. “We could have averted this disaster much earlier.”

He nodded. “Perhaps. But then again, we would have been on bad terms with Thingol from the very start. At least now we have made our own strongholds and are less dependent on his help.” Artanis then quickly told him of what Fingolfin had asked of her, and when she was finished, Maedhros looked thoughtful. “While I feel slightly insulted that he does not trust us, it is only to be expected.” He shook his head, his fine hair floating around him. “But if I were you, I would not tell that reason to my brothers. Say instead that you grew tired of the west. They will find that to be more believable.”

Smiling at him fondly, Artanis said, “Maedhros the politician.”

“You were doing politics as well,” he shot back. “In any case, you even agreed to marry one of us.”

“You make it sound as if it is a bad thing,” reproved Artanis.

He threw his head back and laughed. “To most people, it would be a bad thing. Most fathers keep their daughters away from us.” He flashed his cousin a smile. “They think that we might eat them. Imagine, Elvish Maiden Stew! Besides, should you marry one of us, your choice would be very limited. Maglor and Curufin are already married, and if you wed Celegorm, Aredhel would never forgive you. Amrod and Amras are too young for you, so that only leaves Caranthir and me.”

Artanis managed to look horrified as continued. “And to be honest, Artanis, Caranthir does not like you very much.”

“Thank you for that, Maedhros,” she said dryly.

“Which I suppose leaves me,” he said. Looking at Artanis ponderingly, “And it is not a bad idea, really. I think that over time, we could grow to love each other, even if we were not meant to be.” Then Maedhros cast her a sad look. “But I would not condemn you or any other to suffer from the darkness that has claimed me.”

Her heart wept for him and his loneliness. “Maedhros, you can change that. ”

He shook his head. “If I wed you, I would wish to have children. It is a natural desire, and we would both be driven to satisfy it. But the circumstances we find ourselves in are not natural.” His voice took on a lonely note. “Think you that I have not seen how young Celebrimbor suffers? He is innocent of our past sins, yet he too must carry its burdens. Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I wish for no descendent of mine to suffer the same.”

She could come up with no response.

He looked at her gently again. “What will you do now?”

“I cannot go back there now.”

“My home is open to you, Artanis, for as long as you desire it.” He reached over and warmed her cold hands within his warm ones. “You will fit in easily here.”

Artanis smiled at him. “As long as I am no imposition, Maedhros.”

He looked insulted. “For you to be an imposition would be if you brought along a few hundred guests. Then I would be inclined to think of you a little unkindly.” A teasing smile. “Besides, you are a very good warrior. I am sure I will find use of you.” He ruffled her hair. “But you need rest, so I advise you to seek your bed. I am sure sleep will not be as elusive for you tonight.”

The next few weeks passed by quickly, for Artanis was given much work to do. She would go hunting, be sent on patrols, help people cook, sew clothes, and even participate in the construction of a new wall in the fortress. Maedhros had been true to his word and had kept her so busy that by the time she went to bed, she was too exhausted to think of anything else. Maglor came by more frequently in order to see her, and surprisingly, Caranthir also would come from Thargelion. Regardless of their past animosities, he apparently did pity her in this.

Life in Himring became a pleasing routine, and in what little spare time she and Maedhros could find, he would take her throughout East Beleriand. Often they would pause at the feet of the Ered Luin and wonder what lay beyond it. On these trips they would run into Green Elves, and they would teach Artanis many things of the forest.

Yet at times she found that she needed solitude, and she would often take short trips of her own. And while Maedhros had at first frowned at this, he later relented when Artanis promised not to go more than a few miles away. It was on one of these trips that she wandered further away than usual, and she came upon a section of forest that she had never seen before. Deciding that a few miles of exploration would be harmless, since she was armed well, she followed the feet of the Ered Luin north.

Far away, a very angry and furious silver-haired prince paced in his house. “I have looked everywhere for her! She cannot be in Doriath!” Around him, his family stood gathered. “When I came back here, she was gone, even though I had asked her to stay!”

“Maybe she went to one of her brothers,” said Linneth sympathetically. Beside her, Galathil nodded in agreement.

“It seems to be the most logical choice.” Beside Galathil, Galadhon stood in stoic silence.

Linneth continued. “But what I do not understand is why she chose to leave without telling us. After all, she is not a Kinslayer.”

Celeborn looked shamefaced as his father gave him a withering glare. Galadhon had been very fond of Artanis, and unlike his normally cool-headed younger son, Galadhon had not lost his temper. “You would not be in this position if you had restrained your anger. If only you had listened!”

“Oh Celeborn, you did not…” Linneth trailed off as she realized what exactly Celeborn had done. “Surely you listened to her?”

“No,” he said bleakly. “I assumed wrongly, it seemed.”

Galadhon gave his son a disappointed look. “I have never seen you to be so foolish, my son. Saying such cruel things to another innocent victim…and such accusations. What has come over you?”

Even Celeborn’s brother looked disappointed. “She is not like her hot-headed family, Brother. You knew that.”

“I know all this,” Celeborn muttered. “But the pain at that moment, the fact that she kept something of such magnitude from me!” He gave them all anguished looks. “She was my friend!”

Linneth wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Perhaps she did not tell you because she knew that you would act precisely as you did?”

“So what will you do know?” asked Galathil.

Celeborn closed his eyes. “I will send inquiries to her family. She most likely went to Finrod in Nargothrond. And then I will ask her to come back here.”

As Artanis rode further into the forest, she suddenly noticed how the entire forest had grown silent. Uneasy, she began to wish that she had not come so far alone. But deciding that her wish was pointless, she continued on the grassy trail. Coming upon a narrow stream, she dismounted and allowed her horse to drink while she sat down to eat and rest. But just as she was withdrawing a wineskin from her saddlebags, she felt a cold steel blade press against her throat. Dumbfounded because she and her horse had been taken completely unaware, she dropped the wineskin.

“That must be good quality wine.” The voice at her ear was low and raspy, and it was very accented Sindarin.

“The very best.” Keeping her voice even, she slowly turned her head to see the person wielding the knife. It was an Elf, with skin a few shades darker than other elves. “And may I enquire as to why your hunting knife is currently pressing against my neck?”

She felt his hand reach down and remove her own weapons. “You are trespassing.”

“These lands belong to Maedhros, the Lord of Himring.”

He finally released her. Turning quickly, she saw that he was tall and very well built – not slender at all. “His territory ended quite a distance back.” He smiled dangerously. “We have been following you ever since.” She looked around her again but saw no one in the woods. “Do not bother,” he said, “you will not be able to see them unless they wish to show themselves to you.” He gestured to the ground. “Since you were about to eat, you might as well. Although you will have to drink the water since you fed the grass your wine.”

She sat down slowly, and he sat in front of her. “Who are you that trespasses on our land?” he asked.

“I am Artanis daughter of Finarfin son of Finwë , and I was not aware that this area was claimed.” She spread her hands. “I was only exploring this area.”

“Indeed.” The man leaned forward. “You are not one of the Sindar, nor are you one of us. Who are you?”

She straightened. “I will answer your question with one of my own. Who are you?”

He looked amused. “Since I am the lord here, I think that I should be asking the questions.” Giving her an imperious stare, he continued. “But since I am not ashamed of my identity, I shall tell you. I am Orimor, the youngest son of Nurwë the Avari King.”

_Avari…_ In Valinor the firstborn would speak of the Avari in hushed tones. The Avari had refused the summons of the Valar, and they were the true dark elves. At least the Sindar had started on the Journey.

“Surely Finwë has told you about your long lost kin who remained behind at Cuivienen?” Orimor was watching her very carefully.

“Very little. Only that the Avari did not wish to leave the lands of the Awakening.” Artanis knew she needed to tread carefully. Hostility emanated off him in waves.

Orimor raised his brow. “You do not look like a Noldo.”

“My mother was of the Teleri, and my grandmother was of the Vanyar.”

Orimor smiled. “What a charming bloodline you seem to have. But not charming enough, it seems, since you do not share the philosophy of your foremothers.”

Taking a deep breath, she said, “My lord, I hardly think that you know what my philosophies are.”

“Ahh, but I have a very good idea.” He leaned forward. “Certainly you share the views of your kindred? Both your Noldorin and Sindarin ones?”

“I do not understand…”

“Then please let me enlighten you. I can read your feelings and most of your thoughts. I felt the disgust that rippled through you when I said we were Avari.” His dark eyes were accusing. “You call us dark elves, and you view us as inferior because we chose not to obey the summons of the Valar. Do you deny it?”

She shook her head. “No, I do not.”

Orimor seemed pleased at her honesty. “But then answer me this - if you claim that the Eldar are superior for following the Valar, then why did you and your kind leave them?” He looked thoughtful. “Surely that indicates that perhaps you are not as above us as you thought. After all, there is very little difference between us now, for all of your descendents will be dark elves as well.”

“The reasons we had for leaving have nothing to do with the Valar.”

“Oh, of course. It was Melkor. He seems to be everybody’s scapegoat these days.” At Artanis’s surprised expression, Orimor laughed. “We have known of the Kinslaying for a long time. The birds and trees are far better messengers than people.” He smiled dangerously. “Your future has suddenly become a little gray, Princess.”

She wondered whether they would kill her or not. Briefly she considered telling them that she had fought against Fëanor at Alqualondë, but she dismissed the idea. It would seem like a ploy to buy her life back. She had not even denied being a Kinslayer when Celeborn had accused her…

But apparently Orimor knew. She could read the knowledge in his ageless eyes. “Princess,” and even though he said it in a beautiful voice, the title sounded very derogatory, “we do not judge you for the actions of your cousins. Frankly, the Kinslaying means nothing to us. Too long have the Eldar,” and here Eldar also sounded insulting, “shunned us. So it matters not what you did or did not do at the Swanhaven.”

“They why do you judge me?”

“We judge you now because you have judged us before.”

“Why should my judgment affect you? I am the youngest child of the youngest prince - I am insignificant.” Artanis was starting to get a headache.

But Orimor did not answer that. Instead, he gazed at her for a few moments, as if trying to puzzle something out. Finally: “The Sindar say that we serve the Dark Lord.”

“Do you?”

“Serve the Dark Lord?” He chuckled. “It seems that you Eldar are very narrow-minded. To you, one can either serve the Dark Lord or the good Lords.” Orimor shook his head. “I think it would be better to say that we Avari serve ourselves.”

She narrowed her eyes. “To what end do you serve yourselves?”

He shrugged. “My sister was killed by one of Thingol’s war parties. The Sindar hunt us as if we are sport, especially since we rarely fight with Orcs. They all too easily believe that we are Melkor’s servants.” Spreading his hands on his lap, he said, “I think that how we serve ourselves is obvious. We owe fealty to no one.”

“Your sister was killed by your kinsmen?” asked Artanis faintly.

For a few seconds, Orimor’s eyes became shadowed. “They are not our kinsmen. We have separated from your kind long ago.” _Your kind._

“But you will see her again.”

He looked at her curiously. “Do you think so?”

Artanis gave him a puzzled look. “If you die, you become re-embodied.” She took this opportunity to ask something that had bordered in her mind since she had first met him. “Lord, why do you hate the Valar?”

He raised his eyebrows. “What a strange question to ask, especially from another who hated the Valar so much that she left them.” She did not bother to refute his statement anymore. Instead, “I have another question for you, Princess.” At Artanis’s nod, he asked, “Do you know how Orcs were first produced?”

She shrugged again. “They are probably creatures that Morgoth has created.”

Orimor laughed bitterly. “Melkor created them and did not create them.” At his guest’s blank look, he continued. “From when the Quendi first awakened, Melkor began to steal some of us away. He took these elves to his fortress, Utumno.”

“I have heard of these stolen elves and how he cruelly killed them.”

“Killed them? Did the Sindar tell you that?” When she nodded her head, he looked sorrowful. “No, those stolen elves were certainly not killed. He tortured them and mutilated them, until they became as ugly within as they were without.”

Her eyes widened. “What happened to these elves?” Her stomach tightened in anticipation of the answer.

“Most of the stolen elves were of the Nelyar tribe. Some from the Tatyar, and never from the Minyar. Melkor was always afraid of the Minyar.” Orimor ’s eyes were distant. “One of the stolen ones was my father’s brother. In his desperation, my father Nurwë went to Utumno. It was dark and evil - Angband is a beautiful palace compared to Utumno.”

His gaze sharpened again. “And he saw the first Orcs.” He took a deep breath, and then, “In those days, Orcs did not look as they do now. What they are now is due to centuries after centuries of breeding and even more torture. But in the beginning, you could tell where the Orcs came from.” Orimor leaned forward. “They still looked like _elves_.”

Artanis’s hands dropped the bread in her hands, only to be stolen by a squirrel. “You lie,” she whispered.

“Do I?” He grabbed a hold of her hands. “I have no reason to lie to you. Because you and your kind mean nothing to me.” _Your kind._

“Thingol did not tell us this…” And neither did Celeborn.

Now it was his turn to shrug. “Why should he? If he tells you, then the Noldor would be more hesitant to kill what used to be fellow elves. Thingol _needs_ you to kill Orcs.” Releasing her hands, “So I go back to your previous question - why do I think that I will never see my wife again?”

Artanis felt nausea rise in her throat. Oblivious to her horror, or perhaps completely aware of it, he went on. “In all your years in Valinor, do you recall ever seeing someone re-embodied?”

“No…”

“Ever since the Awakening, the Avari have died in large numbers - either at the hands of Melkor, of Orcs, or at the hands of the Sindar. Yet you have just told me that none of them have left the Halls of Mandos. Indeed, perhaps they have never gotten there.”

She protested. “The Valar love all of Iluvator’s children.”

He looked at her sympathetically. “The Valar love all of you, and perhaps not even you anymore, since you Noldor defied them. They certainly have never come to our aid, even though we suffer the most from Melkor. Forgive me if I find that punishment a bit difficult to swallow, simply because we did not obey their summons, simply because the Orcs are our kin.” He looked up at the night sky. “They say that Iluvator does not want us anymore, those that ceased to be beautiful.”

“Iluvator loves all of his children, no matter what their circumstances.” But her protests were becoming weaker.

“And do you think that he loves the servants of Melkor, these evil, fell creatures?” His voice became louder. “Do you think that Orcs will one day be allowed to enter the Blessed Realm? They should have been elves - I have family among them.”

“Iluvator loves all of you,” she said desperately.

“Hmm, well, I shall see if I ever arrive at the gates to the Halls of Mandos.”

Artanis gazed at the prince with more empathy. She understood so many more things now, and she saw that Thingol was capable of treachery as well. “I am sorry. I did not know.” She gazed at the prince imploringly. “Lord, there is still hope for you.”

“Hope!” Orimor chuckled again. “Ahh, hope. Hope I will leave to you, Princess.” He gestured to his surroundings. “You see our poor state. The lands east of these mountains are too dangerous for us. Orcs roam those lands too freely, and we were forced to come west. We have some safety in Beleriand, if you do not count the danger from Thingol.”

Troubled, she mutely stared at the squirrel that was happily feasting on her bread.

“She is so impertinent,” grated Maedhros.

Maglor gave him a helpless look. Earlier, the captain of on the border patrols had reported sighting Artanis riding further and further away from Noldor land. Luckily, Maglor had arrived at that time, and so he was able to keep his brother from doing any damage to the captain.

Now both brothers were riding in the direction that Artanis had gone. “I only ask her to remain within my borders! Does she think that my borders extend to the other side of Middle Earth?” continued Maedhros. “And what if something has happened to her? Even the Green elves hate this place. Too many Orcs and Avari.”

“Her brothers will not be very happy,” added Maglor.

“You are supposed to make me feel better!” snapped Maedhros.

“Sorry,” said Maglor, except he did not sound apologetic at all.

When they finally entered the forests, they agreed to split. Maglor went north while Maedhros went south. Deciding that Artanis would have traveled at the mountain’s feet, he followed the Ered Luin further down. Soon, they would be near Ossiriand. Perhaps that was where she had gone. But then again, she would not have done it in secret. Hissing in frustration, he kept riding through the dense jungle, distantly wondering if the insects were also sent by Morgoth to plagued them.

However, after a few hours of riding, he came upon a stream, and after traveling down it for a few miles, he suddenly saw Artanis – with a dangerous looking elf. Concerned, he was about to go forward, until he saw that she was under no harm as of yet. Deciding to watch over them instead, he looked for a good vantage point, as the two still had not seen him yet. Knowing that he would not be able to climb the tree without making a great amount of noise, his eyes fell upon the hollow of a tree. Seeing that it would allow him a good vantage point to watch his cousin and the stranger, he released his horse and told her to quietly graze further upstream.

And then he tried to fit into the hollow.

After a few seconds, Maedhros cursed fate for giving him such a tall frame. The hollow was suited for perhaps a cat to find shelter in. Not exceptionally tall Elf-lords.

But he finally did manage to get inside, after folding his limbs in such a way was probably unnatural.

Fingon had always been better at acrobatics.

_Ahh, Fingon. If you could see me now! Your noble cousin who is painfully crouched in an a tree, because against his better judgment, he allowed your cousin Artanis to wander off.. And who also, for a few serious seconds, considered marrying her._

If circumstances had been different, if he were not a Kinslayer, if Fingon were not Fingolfin’s son, and if everything was still happy in Valinor, then perhaps…

Perhaps what? Perhaps Fëanor would not have created those Silmarils? Or perhaps -

His chain of thoughts was cut off by a slight noise. _What was that?!_

A few seconds after hurriedly withdrawing his knife, he caught sight of the source of the noise. He rebuked himself. _Wonderful, Maedhros. You almost cut up a mouse searching for food. At least your combat skills are still sharp._ Giving the mouse his best lordly stare, he said, “This hollow is already occupied.”

The mouse gave him a haughty stare of her own. She seemed to say, _Too bad you cannot move enough to make me leave._

“Why is everyone so impudent lately?” Frustrated because he could not even shake his head, he frowned. “My brothers hardly take heed of my counsel anymore, Orcs are taking over my supply routes, my cousin Artanis ran off, and you are invading my territory.” The mouse gave him another look. “Yes,” Maedhros insisted. “I found this alcove first.”

The mouse squeaked. _You do not fit in here._

“Tell that to Artanis.” Shifting as much as he could, “I am, after all, the lord here. And I am older.” Looking out of the alcove, he said, “And I would have climbed the tree, except I cannot with one hand!”

The mouse nipped his one hand. “That hurt!” Maedhros glared at the mouse. “I still do need it,” he huffed.

Another squeak.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he muttered. “I know, I should be thankful that I still live, by the good graces of Fingon. But sometimes…I wish that I was not.” Giving the mouse a depressed look, he said, “Then I would not dream of Alqualondë .”

The mouse sat on its haunches and gave Maedhros a speculative look. “Yes, I suppose you are right,” sighed Maedhros. “I am who I have made myself to be. Fate does not control me. I control my fate.” But then a troubled look crossed his face. “But does that mean I chose to become a Kinslayer? That idea is too horrifying even to contemplate.”

But after a few seconds, “I chose to follow my father, and I chose to attack the Teleri. Just as I chose not to burn the ships.”

The mouse’s tail twitched. “I suppose you never had any problems.” Maedhros gave the mouse a considering glance. “Had Iluvator only seen fit to make me a mouse!”

Squeak squeak. _Maedhros the Mouse._

“As opposed to Maedhros the Tall?” He smiled ruefully. “At least I would fit in this hole then.” Maedhros shifted again to find a more comfortable position - and found none. “But going back to your original point, do you really think that we control fate?”

The mouse emitted a puff of breath in a murine approximation of a sigh. Laying down resignedly, she looked up at the odd Elf as he continued speaking. “Sometimes my own people will call me Kinslayer - not to my face, of course, but behind my back. It does not disturb me actually, for it is an understandable mistake. But I think that swearing the oath was the biggest mistake in my life.”

Maedhros absently patted the mouse’s head. “I will not diminish it by saying that it seemed to be a good idea at the time. When Father swore that oath, I suddenly understood what he was offering - freedom from the Valar, the freedom to make mistakes, the freedom to be _wrong._ I had only a few seconds to make my decision then, and at the time, it seemed like the only possible choice. After all, when someone is hanging off a cliff, he will grab any hand that will pull him up to safety. He does not pause to ask whose hand it is, nor does he wonder what awaits him above.”

“I do not need Melian’s insight to know that most people resent me. Other than Maglor, my brothers see me as weak, they think that I have betrayed Father by giving up the crown.” Maedhros’s gray eyes were shadowed by pain. “My uncle sees me as my father’s son - nothing more. My other cousins, save Fingon and Artanis, see me as untrustworthy. My own people blame me for their misery.” He laughed bitterly. “And Morgoth - he simply hates me.”

Squeak. The mouse’s nose twitched.

“Am I feeling sorry for myself again? Sorry.” He allowed the mouse to cuddle his leg. “I lost my identity when I swore that oath.”

Squeeeeaaaaak.

“No need to be so shrill, friend! My ears are sensitive to such high frequencies.” Looking thoughtful, he nodded. “But you are right again, Lady Mouse. I am Maedhros.”

The mouse’s mouth stretched into what was probably a smile. Maedhros smiled back. “I am myself, and that is all I need to be.”

Further down river, Artanis and Orimor spoke of various things. She told him of her brothers, cousins, and uncles. Orimor seemed to like Fëanor the best. “Kinslayer or not – he knew not to believe that the Valar can make everything right.”

“My father never agreed with that.” She looked toward the river.

“You have told me about your entire family, even non family members, yet you do not speak of your father. Why is that?” His eyes for once held no maliciousness in them.

Artanis clenched her hands. “He betrayed us. He would not come.”

He nodded in understanding. “He betrayed you because he did not follow his brothers?” His face became thoughtful. “Fraternal loyalty generally does go deep.”

“As it should! Did you not say that your own father went to Utumno to seek his brother out? That was the right thing to do.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “Regardless of what happened at Alqualondë, the Noldor were still his people.”

“And you are still his daughter.” Orimor looked at her sympathetically. “Your father did a difficult thing, Princess. He sacrificed those whom he loved best for higher principles. Your father stood up for what he believed in, just as Fëanor did. Frankly, it seems that Fingolfin is the weakest one – he had no position of his own.”

Artanis shook her head. “Fingolfin went because his people went. My father did not.”

Orimor’s dark eyes were sorrowful. “The Teleri were your father’s people too. If he had come, he would have left the Teleri – his wife’s people, the people that you said he adopted as his own. His decision was not easy, Princess.”

Reluctant understanding crossed her face. “I need to dwell on this matter more.”

“As you should.” He stretched languorously. “It is a shame that you will dwell in Ossiriand. I think that the lands east of these mountains would be more to your liking.”

“You said it was very dangerous.”

Orimor chuckled. “So I did. But if you shy away from danger, than you are a boring person.” His face turned serious. “The lands beyond are ravaged. The only elves that live there are the Avari and the Silvan elves.”

In a flash of insight, she understood what Fëanor had wanted of her, of what the Elessar could do. To heal what Fëanor would have brought to ruin.

Artanis ripped off the Elessar and held it out to Orimor. “With this stone, I can make those lands a paradise with the flick of my hand. This is what I offer you for your support.”

His face grew cold. “Our loyalty is not for sale, Princess. It never has been,” he sneered.

She gazed at the prince intently. “Forgive me. That was ill-spoken of me.”

Orimor leaned back to regard her. “None of the Sindar has ever acknowledged a mistake to us.”

“Perhaps there was something wrong with their upbringing.” She allowed Orimor to take the Elessar. “You say that you cannot be bought, but I believe that there is something that you can accept from me. For your fealty I shall give you my fealty…totally.”

“You cannot,” he sputtered in shock. “You are a woman, and -”

Artanis cut him off. “I am the daughter of Finarfin, and I was a disciple of Fëanor. My word is my bond.” She closed her hands around his. “When I say totally, I mean without reservation…I would give my life for you.”

He gazed down at the stone that was encased by their hands. “It is unprecedented.” He looked up at her, his ancient eyes uncertain. “I feel the truth in your words. I know you can do this.” The Elessar cast a green glow on his face. “But I must seek the counsel of my father. Would you meet him?”

Nurwë…Ingwë’s friend from long ago. “I would be most honored.”

“Good then.” He gave the Elessar back to her. “I should also let you know that the Lord of Himring has folded himself into a hollow of a tree in an effort to watch over you.”

“Maedhros,” she said disbelievingly.

“You are well-loved,” he remarked. “I advise you to help him out of there, or else he shall permanently be in that position. Riding a horse will become very uncomfortable.” Orimor began to back away into the forest.

She held out a hand to stop him. “Wait! How can I find you?”

“We shall find you.”

Maedhros watched the stranger leave Artanis. “Do you think that she was having a lover’s tryst with him?” he asked.

The mouse’s whiskers twitched.

“I suppose you are right. He is too swarthy. They would not look well together.” He suddenly noticed that Artanis was nowhere to be seen. “Oh no! She left. I need to find her.” He painfully began moving his limbs.

“I found you,” said Artanis from outside. She peaked into the hollow. “Maedhros, is Himring too big for you?”

“Be quiet and help me out,” he snapped. “How did you know I was here?” Artanis began to pull his arms, and pain shot up them.

She smiled mysteriously. “My friend spotted you.”

His upper body out of the tree, he began to wiggle his legs. Finally outside, he collapsed on the ground, and the mouse nuzzled him. Picking up the mouse, he put her in a pouch and left the flap open as Artanis watched on with an amused smile. When he was done, he turned back to his cousin. “Your friend? Artanis, next time you wish to see a lover, just bring him to Himring. It would make spying so much easier.”

Author Notes:

\- Originally I was going to have Fingon and the dragon in this chapter, but he wouldn’t fit in. Next time then!

\- Maedhros fortified the Hill of Himring.

\- The Quendi’s first sundering was at Cuivienen. Those that followed Oromë were the Eldar, while those that did not were the Avari (the Unwilling). Then, near the Anduin, Lenwë split from the Teleri to form the Nandor. Some other elves that also split from the main host would later become the Silvan elves. The Teleri that did not go to Aman were the Sindar.

\- Melkor captured Avari and made them into Orcs. But over time, they lost their immortality. So the Orcs are actually a mortal race.

\- Utumno was Melkor’s first fortress. It was north of the Orocarni, the mountains which rested over the sea of Helcar. Angband was actually just an outpost under Sauron, to guard the lands behind Utumno. But when the Valar made war with him, they destroyed Utumno. Angband then became Melkor’s permanent fortress.

\- Since Fëanor coined the term Morgoth, the Avari (and logically the Sindar) would actually call him Melkor, his real name.

\- I have always wondered why it is that out of all the Noldor, only Galadriel ruled over the Silvan elves (the Avari and the Silvan elves merged in the second age).

\- Maedhros needed a friend.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

Author Note – Sorry for the delay, folks. Galadriel was busy being her usual stubborn, princessy self and wouldn’t let me write her the way I wanted to.  


_Year 110 of the First Age_

When Nurwë finally came to her, she had been in the middle of harvesting season. Under her care, southern Ossiriand had flourished even more, and the bare lands had been coaxed to bring forth ample grains and vegetables. Helping her had been many Green-Elves. From them, she learned their languages and customs, and she learned that their brethren still dwelt over the mountains.

Nurwë did not look like what she had expected. Some part of her assumed that his hair would be white like Cirdan’s, and his face would be lined from all the trials that he had suffered. She had thought that his hair would be as black as his sons, and that they would share the same eyes. But Nurwë was none of those things. His face was as youthful as hers, and his hair was a startling brown. Furthermore, his eyes were of a similar shade, and they betrayed very little of the man inside. His eyes did, however, show his true age to her. They were like Ingwë’s – deep, ageless, and wise, and he seemed to contain the same strange wisdom of suffering that Elwë lacked.

The king did not stay long, but he had confided to Artanis that his own death was imminent. “Too long have I avoided death, for I have been reluctant in leaving my own people. But the times are changing, I can smell that in the winds. I have no place in the new world that is about to be forged – most of the old ones do not.”

It was also in these days that Glorfindel journeyed to see her. He arrived in the middle of the rain season, yet his arrival brought a respite to the downpours, and for the first time a few days, Artanis had glimpsed the sun. He arrived arrayed in his golden armor, a sight so magnificent that many of the Green-Elves speculated that he was of the Minyar. After the formalities had been done with, and his men settled, he had pounced on Artanis and proceeded to keep her occupied for the remainder of the afternoon.

Afterwards, comfortably reclined on Artanis’s simple bed, he reached over and grasped a pouch that he had put there earlier. “I have much correspondence for you,” he said as he unceremoniously dumped the contents onto her lap. Artanis eagerly dived into the pile while Glorfindel watched on with a smile. “Several letters from your brothers, a few from Fingolfin and Fingon, more from Aredhel, and some from Doriath.”

“Doriath?”

“Yes, Melian sent her letters to Finrod, who kindly forwarded them to you. I believe you also have a letter from Celeborn.” He placed that particular letter in her hand.

A frown appeared on her face. “I do not think I will read it.”

He gave her a chastising look. “That is rather childless of you. Regardless of the words that have passed between the two of you, you should not allow it to ruin a good friendship.” Glorfindel tucked some of her errant strands of hair behind her ear. “Besides, I find that his anger is justified.”

“He assumed that I was also a Kinslayer! He _assumed_. He did not even ask.” Artanis looked at the letter broodingly.

“What else was he to think? And as you offered no words in your defense…Artanis, being silent is another way of agreeing.” He stood up, and his naked form gleamed in the sunlight from the window. “And in a way, you are no more innocent than the sons of Fëanor.”

“You know?” she breathed.

He nodded. “Oh yes. I know that you knew that Fëanor was going to burn the ships.” He smiled sadly. “We may not share any sort of spiritual bond, but at times you allow your mental defenses to slip, and some things are easily picked up by someone who has shared your bed for over one hundred years.”

Her throat tightened, “Glorfindel, I-”

He held up his hand. “There is no need for you to explain yourself to me now, _meleth_. I imagine that you had a good reason to keep silent.” He slipped on a robe. “And perhaps that is why you did not defend yourself to Celeborn – because you also share in the guilt. And while I understand this, I also ask that you reveal the truth one day. All of us who suffered because of it deserve to know why.” He smiled sadly again. “And perhaps my empathy for Celeborn is for different reasons as well.” He tossed her a dress. “Clothe yourself, Lady, for my time here is running short, and I would like to speak to you.”

This change of subject prevented Artanis from asking what Glorfindel had meant about his empathy for Celeborn. Quickly donning some clothes, she followed him to her small garden. “What is troubling you?”

“Your cousin Turgon has been constructing his own hidden kingdom.”

“I know very little about it.” She sat down on the bench next to him.

“I wish that we had no need of such places,” he sighed softly. “When the city is finished being built, I shall be accompanying your brother to his hidden city.”

Her heart grew cold. “I see. Then we will be parted.”

He shook his head. “No, that is why I came to you. Come with me, Artanis,” he pleaded. “Marry me. Live with me fully as my wife.” The sincerity shone in his eyes.

Artanis’s heart hammered. She greatly desired to accept. The thought of marrying seemed very pleasing to her at the moment, as did the thought of having children – golden-haired, green-eyed ones with mischief dancing on their faces. And while they had not reached the all-consuming love that many others did, she did not doubt that over time, they could. But was war a good time for such things? Would she be able to dwell in a hidden city, cloistered away from the very events that she had played a role in? Could she stand by and watch Glorfindel go off in danger while she remained behind? For that was what would happen – she knew both Glorfindel and Turgon too well to believe otherwise.

“You do not accept…” he trailed off.

“I want to,” she said firmly. “I really do. Nothing appeals to me more right now than to wed you. But you know as well as I do that this is not the right time. I am needed elsewhere. And I promised Fingolfin, just as you have promised Turgon.”

He turned away from her. “It is just as well then, although I had hoped otherwise.”

She reached out a hand to him, but he did not accept it. “So then we will be parted.”

“Yes.” Suddenly a great weariness seemed to come upon him. “I will remain within the hidden city until such time that we must reveal ourselves. That could be many years, Artanis.”

“What is to happen to us now?” she whispered. Life without Glorfindel was unthinkable.

“I do not know.”

  
_Year 115 of the First Age_

“So you have finally found the decency to visit your brother,” remarked Finrod over dinner. Last week, Artanis had arrived in Nargothrond with the vague explanation that she wished to see the now completed kingdom.

“Against my better judgment,” she shot back. “I have been here for only a week and already you are driving me mad with your questions.”

The fire glinted in Finrod’s hair. “Can you blame me for being curious about the Avari? Do you remember how Grandfather Olwë would never speak of them? At least now we know why.” He leaned forward. “But you should be careful with them. Thingol does not trust them.”

“He does not trust us,” she snapped. “Have you already forgotten that he did not tell us the truth of the Orcs?”

He shook his head. “That changes nothing. Regardless of where the Orcs came from, they are still our enemies.” Finrod sighed. “As much as it pains me – and you know it does – I cannot go around trying to redeem fallen Elves when the ones that haven’t fallen are in so much danger. And the Avari…I am concerned about them.”

“They are mistrustful of us, as they have a right to be. They fear we are like Melkor.” She gripped his hands. “ We must earn their trust, and the only way to do so is to show our good intentions with deeds. Once we have their loyalty secured and can offer them protection from the evils that plague them, perhaps they can live among us.”

Finrod smiled. “I thought that I was supposed to be the idealistic one.” But Finrod was not idealistic, for he too had submitted to the painful reality of the Noldor. He had sworn his own oath that he would not sire any children.

“Perhaps your bad qualities are rubbing off on me,” she said in an attempt at levity.

But the amusement vanished off her face. “I have heard of your separation from Glorfindel.”

She did not meet his eyes. “Perhaps this parting was long overdue.”

“I had hoped otherwise,” he confessed. “I had hoped that out of all of us, you would be the one to find peace here. But it seems that the wishes of a foolish brother have no place on Middle Earth.”

“How could that be, as long as I am still bound to Fëanor? My ties to him are that of treachery, and they are not easily absolved.”

“You will not tell me…?”

She shook her head. The time was not yet ripe.

  
_Year 175 of the First Age_

The attack had come suddenly, but thankfully Fingon and his warriors had become aware of it in time. They intercepted Morgoth’s host as it came down the Firth of Dengrist. Apparently the dark Vala’s plan had been to come into Hithlum from the west, but Fingon was a valiant warrior, and under his command, the Orcs were driven into the sea.

News of this reached Artanis in Ossiriand, and using this battle as an excuse, she again traveled west to Hithlum. There she would be able to visit Fingolfin and Fingon, see her brothers again, and, if the circumstances were ripe, go to Doriath. The letters from Melian had been coming in increasing amounts, and Artanis admitted to herself that seeing Melian would be a good idea.

But Celeborn had sent her no correspondence save the first letter he had sent through Glorfindel. It had taken Artanis a long time to read it, and when she did, she had grown despondent. Celeborn had apologized for his assumptions, and he expressed the desire to renew their friendship.

Artanis had not replied. It was a discussion that would be better suited in person.

Thus she returned to her kin in the west, and Fingolfin grew overjoyed at seeing his niece again. “Now that Aredhel has vanished with Turgon, I have missed female companionship,” he had admitted over their morning meal. And while Fingolfin had never been a father to her as Fëanor had once been, she did draw comfort from him.

If the truth were to be told, Artanis was lonely. Years had passed with no word from Glorfindel, and she missed his presence keenly. Even when they had been parted before, it was not the same. Now he was forbidden to seek her out. It was this loneliness that caused her to go to Menegroth finally, for the first time since she had left almost a hundred years ago. The mistrust between the Sindar and Noldor still existed, yet it had tempered down because of necessity. Morgoth was as ever increasing in his wiles, and now the two kindreds needed each other.

It was with great gaiety that she was welcomed back to the Halls of Thingol. Luthien had run out to greet her, with Melian following at a more dignified pace. Even Thingol and Galathil had been there. Celeborn and Galadhon were missing, but Artanis forced herself not to think of it. “Greetings to you, your majesties.”

“And to you, my child,” said Thingol kindly. “I am sorry that you have delayed so long in coming back.”

“That should teach you to keep your temper in check,” scolded Melian lightly. “How long will you be staying?

Artanis fell into step between the king and queen, with the others following a few paces behind. “Not very long. A month, at the most.”

Melian gave her a disapproving look. “Why so short a time?”

“My home is in Ossiriand, and I have duties there.” She allowed a fond smile to touch her face. “I have grown quite fond of the forests and the plains.”

Amusement lit the queen’s features. “I believe that she has become a wood Elf.”

Chuckling, Artanis was led to her rooms. Soon a bath was prepared for her, and some fruits were sent to her in order to tide her over to the next meal. But as she was drying her hair, a slender woman entered the chambers. “Ahh, Linneth! How nice it is to see you again.” Galathil’s wife had not changed since Artanis had last seen her.

Linneth gave the older woman a shy smile. “Hello, Artanis. I am glad that you have come – at the perfect time.”

“Perfect time? What happened?” asked Artanis with no small amount of confusion. “And where are Celeborn and Galadhon?”

She looked shocked. “They have not told you…” When Artanis shook her head, Linneth gave her a sympathetic glance. “Galadhon was killed in a skirmish in the north a week ago. Orc poison.”

Artanis sat down on a chair. “And Celeborn?” she asked fearfully.

“He removed himself to his mother’s house.” Linneth took a hold of Artanis’s hands imploringly. “He is so very upset, and the king fears that Celeborn may die of grief.” Tears welled in Linneth’s eyes. “Neither of the brothers reached Galadhon in time. Celeborn blames himself for that.” Giving Artanis a pleading look, “Please, will you bring Celeborn back? He will listen to you, I know he will.”

Artanis shook her head sadly. “I do not think so. We parted on very bad terms.”

Regardless, Artanis found herself at the flet the next day. She had been reluctant to come; yet she could not deny the fact that she too was very concerned. So it was with trepidation that she entered the flet and sought him out. After much search, however, she had been unable to find him. Thinking the worst, she began to search for him in the woods.

When she found him, he was quietly sitting upon the branch of a tree a little ways away. She tried to approach him as quietly as she could, but as she had less experience with stealth than he did, he turned to look at her. The surprise that flashed across his features had quickly given away to wariness. “Lady Artanis,” he said formally.

She wrung her hands behind her back. Had their comfortable relationship regressed? “Lord Celeborn,” she acknowledged with the same stiffness.

Her lightened when she saw the tiniest glimmer of humor in those silvery eyes. Perhaps he too found their awkwardness amusing. “How may I be of service to you?”

“I have come to see you,” she said softly. “Linneth told me of your father,” and here she faltered.

“It is of no matter, Lady. It is an event long past.” He sat back down on the mossy ground.

Climbing up the branches with a little difficulty, she finally perched next to him. “No, it matters very much. Celeborn,” she said using his name, “You forget that I too am fatherless. My father is as good as dead to me, for I shall never see him again in this life.”

“Your grief is not any less than my own. I am sorry.” He ran his hands over the bark. “My father and I were never close. Many times I resented him for fostering me with Thingol while keeping Galathil with him. But now that he is dead, I find myself wondering if I did not do everything in my power to get there on time. Something unconsciously.”

“That is not true, Celeborn,” she interjected gently. When he raised a disbelieving eyebrow in her direction, she elaborated. “In my lifetime, I have wished many people ill, not the least of all my father. But suffice it to say that I realize now how much I love him, even if I still disagree with much of what he did.” Artanis clasped her hands on her lap. “A curse and exile separates me from apologizing to him. Had I the opportunity, I would fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness. In my loyalty to politics and passion, I had forgotten the most important one – the loyalty of love.” A small sigh escaped her. “My brothers also left Middle Earth, but they left with the blessings of our father. They did not dishonor him as I did. I spoke cruel and unforgivable things to the one person who has ever loved me unconditionally.”

Celeborn eyed her sympathetically. “Surely it is not as dire as you make it out to be.”

Artanis smiled sadly. “In the case of the Noldor, it always is.” Turning her face to him, “You parted with your father on good terms. And whatever disagreements that you two may have shared, the bonds of family have always superceded it.”

“Artanis, why did you not respond to my letter?” he asked suddenly.

“The letter…” she trailed off. “I wanted to address the issue in person.”

“Must I apologize again? I fear I will not be as eloquent as I was in the letter.” His countenance was now lightening with a trace of his old humor.

She waved her hand in the air. “No, it is I who must apologize. The deception was, while not of my choice, something that I accepted and thus take full responsibility for. And while I am no Kinslayer, I am many other things, Celeborn. And I did deserve your anger, even if it was misdirected.”

“Another secret?”

She nodded. “Many secrets, some of which will never be revealed. It is but another fruit of Morgoth’s treachery.” Changing the subject, “Will you not return to Menegroth with me?” When Celeborn looked uncertain, she pressed on. “I only arrived in Doriath yesterday, and I confess that I have not fully recovered from my travels. Then I came here in order to seek out whom I hope will return being my friend. So now I find myself wearied from lack of food, rest, and peace.” She gave him an imploring glance. “And since I promised your sister-in-law that I would return with you or not at all, my fate is now in your hands.”

He chuckled softly. “You could simply stay here with me for a few days. Unless you have forgotten how to live in the trees again.” A teasing smile. “You are a stone-dweller.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that she had dwelt with Green-elves for the better part of the century when she realized that his teasing was his attempt to lighten his mood. “I have learned a few things,” she said archly. “Perhaps I will remain a few days here and show you that I can now construct a ladder. If you return me with, of course. Such is the price of my company.”

“How very Naugrim-like of you,” he commented dryly. “But yes, I will return with you. I suspect that my presence has been missed.” Shaking her head, she climbed down. At least his arrogance was still intact.

They remained in the flet for three days, and then they returned to the city. When they had arrived within the city gates, his entire family had run out to greet him. Ever the outsider, Artanis stood aside while Melian, Thingol, Luthien, Galathil, and Linneth. Seeing that her presence was forgotten, she left the group and quietly made her way to her rooms.

Time passed in Doriath swiftly, and the day of her departure approached far too quickly. It was easy for her to forget the wars outside the kingdom, for Menegroth was its own world. Too often it was easy to pretend that Morgoth simply did not exist, and the horrible wars had never happened.

But then she would see Thingol’s war parties leaving the city. She would see Celeborn and Galathil dressed in armor, and she would receive letters from her family.

Then her fantasy would collapse.

In his most recent letter, Fingolfin had written that Turgon, Aredhel and Glorfindel were well in their hidden city. Often she would think of her golden-haired lover and wonder what would have happened had circumstances been different. She knew that had they remained in Aman, they would have been wed long ago, and there would have been children at their feet. How sad it was for her to acknowledge that such an opportunity was gone.

Artanis spent much of her time with Melian, and when the chance presented itself, with Celeborn. Their friendship had deepened, and she found herself glad that she had made his acquaintance. Celeborn was an exceptional Elf, and in him she found an excellent companion.

One of her troubles was the issue of her name. Her name was in Quenya, the language the Thingol had forbidden in his kingdom. Thingol himself referred to her as “my grandniece,” while Melian called her “little one.” Luthien and Linneth simply called her “princess.” Only Celeborn called her Artanis but never in public. Then, she was “Lady.” This matter came to a climax when one of Thingol’s subjects, an Elf more vehement toward the Noldor than the others, demanded that something be done with the name Artanis. The Elf suggested that either she take a new name or allow someone else to give her one.

This upset Artanis to no end, for her name was the one part of her identity that she did not wish to shed. Already she had stopped speaking her beloved Quenya for the more rustic Sindarin, and she had adapted much of their customs as her own. To have her name stripped from her was something that appealed to her not at all.

It was Celeborn who had counseled her on this. “As you dwell outside of Doriath for much of the time, your own name will still be used. Quenya is spoken outside of this kingdom, and thus only here will you have to suffer from this.”

“I do not know what to call myself. The translation of Artanis from Quenya to Sindarin does not appeal to me, and to give myself another name seems presumptuous on my part.”

Celeborn hesitated, and then, “Perhaps you would allow another to offer you a suggestion?”

“Please.”

His cheeks pinked becomingly. “I remember that when I first met you, I found your name inadequate. Thus I renamed you Galadriel – a prerogative undeserved on my part.”

“Galadriel,” she whispered. “It is a lovely name, a name that I am not worthy for.”

He shook his head. “I would say otherwise.”

“Then I shall be Galadriel here, and I shall wear the name with great honor.”

A week before her departure, Galathil had been sent scouting near the Nan Durgortheb, the region between Doriath’s northern borders and the mountains of the Ered Gorgoroth. A fear-filled region, almost everyone avoided travel in those regions, yet at times the circumstances were needful, and the horror of those lands needed to be dealt with. Because he was unsure of when he would return, Galathil sent Linneth back to Menegroth from their village home in the north.

Artanis was rising from sleep when Linneth arrived early in the morning. As she was getting dressed, she looked out her window and was awarded by the sight of several riders approaching the gates of the palace. Going to the balcony, she saw that Thingol and Celeborn were waiting for them. As soon as Linneth dismounted, she was embraced by Thingol. The king then drew one of the messengers away as they conferred while Linneth simply flung herself into Celeborn’s open arms. “Thank the Valar for you, Celeborn.”

Artanis was rewarded by the sight of her friend who had never been a rock for her to lean on, now standing as firm as granite for Linneth, his body supporting hers, as he rocked her like a child, his voice soothing as he whispered comfort into the disheveled head of his sister-in-law that was pressed against his shoulder.

Artanis backed away from the window as she painfully remembered all the other times Celeborn had protected and comforted Linneth. Celeborn _then_ stepping in to shield Linneth from the malicious gossip in the early days of her marriage to Galathil. Celeborn going to fetch her all the way from the Falas, worrying for her safety when Galathil was away with Galadhon. Celeborn staying up the entire night with her when she was queasy with a stomachache. Celeborn _now_ , as he offered her his strong shoulder for her worries and tears, as well as his warm, protecting arms for her reassurance, both of which he had never offered to Artanis.

And through the layers of pity, of remorse, of tolerance, a new emotion stirred within her. Jealousy and possessiveness. It was a completely new to her, for even in the days when she was with Glorfindel, she had been quite content to share him.

Troubled by these new feelings, she sought out the peacefulness of the gardens.

A week later, she left Doriath – and she firmly put aside such unwelcome and troubling feelings.

Author Notes:

\- Galadriel is the epesse that Celeborn gave to her. It means “woman crowned in radiance.”

\- Next chapter: Finrod stumbles across men for the first time.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

_Year 275 of the First Age – Himring_

"According to Fingon in his latest letter, it was quite unexpected." Along the outer walls of the fortress, Maedhros and Maglor strolled slowly. He had only recently arrived in Himring from his own fortress further east.

"I imagine so," Maglor agreed dryly. "A dragon is hardly something one would expect." He pursed his lips. "But now that we know Morgoth is capable of such base treachery, perhaps we should not be so lax in our guard."

Maedhros straightened. "Fingon was not lax in the first place, Brother."

Maglor smiled ruefully. "That was ill-spoken of me. Forgive me." He squeezed his brother's arm. "But this dragon was only half grown. 'Twas possible to stop him with our arrows now, but when he grows older and stronger? What then?"

"I know not," admitted Maedhros. They paused at one of the corner looking posts. "But we shall deal with it when the time comes. As we have been doing in the many years we have been here." He leaned over the side of the wall and turned his bright eyes to his brother. "Maglor," he asked earnestly. "Do you think me brutal?"

Maglor leaned against the wall of the parapet. "This war is brutal, Maedhros. When it is over, we will be as we are, not as it has made us."

His brother nodded thoughtfully. "True enough; very wise, in fact…but will any of us be as we were before?"

"I certainly hope not! I do not wish to be as I was before." _As a son of a powerful but doomed prince._

"While I wish I could be," finished Maedhros. He looked in the direction of Angband. Then clasping his brother's shoulder with his left hand: "Regardless, I am glad you are here, Maglor. I feel lonely when you are away."

Maglor's lips quirked into a small smile. "It feels good to be missed."

Maedhros began to lead his brother inside the fortress. "I have received a rather interesting missive this morn," he said. "From Thingol, no less." Entering the kitchens, they made straight for the tray of warm biscuits laid out on one of the tables. "Generally, Thingol pretends that we do not exist, but he has asked a favor of me."

Maglor cast him a worried glance. Kings did not ask for favors lightly, especially not one such as Thingol. "What sort of favor?" He bit into the warm biscuit. "Some honey would go well with this, methinks."

His brother found a jar of honey and a spreading knife. They ate quietly for a while until, "There are some wandering companies of the Sindar in Lothlann. Thingol has requested permission for his messenger to cross through my lands." When he was done eating, he licked the honey off his fingers. "He will be here within the next two weeks, I imagine."

"What business does Thingol have with the wandering companies? They do not recognize him as their lord."

"He is trying to entice them to return to Doriath. To keep them from harms way, should Morgoth ever launch an offensive through Lothlann. And while he did not admit it, I think the business with Glaurang frightened him."

Maglor dipped his finger into the jar of honey absently. "I wonder what he is up to."

The messenger that Thingol had sent turned out to be none other than Celeborn. He exchanged formalities with Maedhros and Maglor, who still had not left Himring. "Thingol and his Queen send their greetings."

The three of them were sitting in the library. "You will be leaving tomorrow for Lothlann?" asked Maglor in a kind manner.

"Yes."

"So short a time here…"

Celeborn smiled slightly. "A Fëanorian fortress is the last place for me to stay, my lord." He hesitated, and then, "We in the west have not had any recent tidings of our kin. How fares Lady Galadriel?"

_Galadriel_. The brothers exchanged looks. Artanis had related the name incident in Doriath many years ago and how Celeborn had suggested a new name for her. " _Artanis_ is well," said Maedhros, his lips tightening ever so slightly. He still had not forgiven the Sindar for accusing Artanis and her brothers for being Kinslayers.

Celeborn's silver eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "That is good to hear," he offered politely. "Her kin has sent her some letters. We would appreciate it if you would kindly forward them." Sindarin messengers rarely traveled to Ossiriand, and when they did, they often took long, circuitous routes to avoid lands controlled by the Noldor.

"How is your brother?" asked Maglor. His eyes pleaded with his elder brother, who currently sat with a scowl marring his fair features.

For once, the smile that graced Celeborn's face was genuine. "They are well. My brother and his wife are expecting their first child. (1)"

"Congratulations," said Maedhros gruffly. "Your father's line will continue on." He shifted in his chair. "Forgive me for being abrupt, Lord Celeborn, but I must ask why you are here. You are Thingol's advisor, not his messenger boy."

"Thingol is concerned for the welfare of some of the Sindar in Lothlann." He took a careful sip of his tea as Maedhros flashed a knowing look to Maglor. "He wishes for them to return to Doriath and live under his protection."

"That is most understandable," agreed Maedhros.

Celeborn nodded. "Yes, but some of the tribal leaders are bound to disagree. They would rather keep their freedom than live under the rule of a distant king. I was sent in the hopes of persuading them."

Maglor offered the younger Elf some sweet cakes. "Our cousin Finrod has told us that you are an excellent orator. I imagine that you will succeed in your task."

The silver eyes looked very grave. "I certainly hope so. Their lives depend on it."

Soon food was brought in, which the three of them ate quite gratefully. As Maedhros explained to Celeborn, "We very rarely have excuses to cook fine food here. The arrival of Thingol's advisor happens to be an excellent one."

After Celeborn retired, Maedhros spoke: "He had his reasons for coming here."

"To fulfill whatever tasks Thingol has asked him to?" said Maglor in reply.

He shrugged. "Perhaps."

_Year 306 of the First Age_

"And do you trust this source?" asked Thingol. Beside him, Melian gave Celeborn a reassuring smile.

The silver-haired advisor nodded. "Implicitly."

"If he has your trust, then he has mine," said Thingol abruptly. He stood and walked toward one of the large windows in his study. "I wonder about these new creatures."

"They are mortal, my lord."

A sneer marked the king's face. "Closer to the Naugrim, are they?" Thingol, as much as he respected the skills of the Dwarven folk, still retained the commonly held belief of Elven superiority in all things, beauty most of all.

The queen raised a dark brow in the king's direction. "Husband," she chided gently. Then shifting her attention to her grandnephew: "When was the sighting confirmed?"

Celeborn gave the queen a grateful smile; she knew that Thingol's prejudice often discomfited him. "There have been rumors that the Avari," and here Thingol's eyes flashed angrily, "came into contact with them east of the Ered Luin. There have been reports that they taught these newcomers how to survive." Glancing at the king, Celeborn bravely continued on. "Wanderers, especially those that have been to Ossiriand recently, have spoken of an unrest among the Green Elves. That they have seen them and are angered by their intrusion."

"As they should be," snapped Thingol. "These Second born appear out of the Dark Lands – they are probably under the influence of Melkor!"

"Perhaps," agreed Melian cryptically.

The king gave her an annoyed look; it was well known that Melian's foresight gave Thingol as much headache as relief. "Celeborn, I want you to increase patrols around Doriath. And send some of your best people abroad. I want more information about these creatures." His bright eyes sharpened. "How goes your progress in finding out the infiltrator?"

Distaste crossed Celeborn's face. He despised spy work; indeed, he found it demeaning in its lack of honor. "Not well, my lord. There are simply too many tribes to sort through. I had hoped to find him in Lothlann, but that lead did not turn up."

"Perhaps you should recruit some of the Avari – they are quite clever at this sort of thing," commented the queen.

Horror crossed the king's face. "Absolutely not! I will have none of those Elves involved in the business of Doriath!"

Celeborn sighed and looked away. His audience with the king and queen was drawing to an end. "I will send out more people, my liege." He bowed to both of them and exited gracefully. But once out of the room, he stopped and leaned against the wall. Thingol's stubbornness was costing all of them much needed time. This spy was leaking information to Morgoth Bauglir's Orcs, and each month, more and more war parties were being ambushed. And while the Girdle of Melian kept Doriath safe, the villages and districts outside of it were constantly under the shadow of attack.

Furthermore, an increase in patrols meant even more work for the already over-worked warriors. Galathil would especially be affected, for he was one of Thingol's captains. And little Nimloth, who barely saw her father, would see him even less.

Thoughts of his niece brought a smile to his weary face, and after a few moments of consideration, he headed for the family rooms of his brother. Since Galathil had become captain, he spent most of his time in the barracks, so it was no surprise for Celeborn to discover that Galathil was out again. Linneth was, however, and she stood to greet her brother-in-law as he entered.

"Celeborn! I had thought that you would be tied up in matters of the king," she laughed as a smile of delight crossed her lovely features.

He bent down to kiss her cheek. "I slipped away when no one was looking." He cast a surreptitious eye around the suspiciously empty quarters. "Where is the fairest flower of Doriath?"

Linneth looked crestfallen, but her eyes twinkled. "She was picked by the gardener, and now she is in a bouquet meant for the queen."

Celeborn followed her line of sight to a strange, giggling, child-sized lump behind the curtains. "That is too bad, really, for I had a surprise for the flower – to help with growth, of course."

"And to make the flower more beautiful," added Linneth.

"More beautiful than Luthien?" demanded the curtain.

Without hesitation, Celeborn answered, "Of course. That is what enchanted sweets are for."

Silence, and then a dark-haired blur ran straight toward Celeborn, who deftly caught her. "Can I have them now?"

He sighed. "And to think that I was her favorite uncle yesterday. Now she does not even greet me properly."

Nimloth giggled before kissing her uncle sloppily. "Now can I have them?" Chuckling, Celeborn pulled out sweetmeats for the child. Still holding her in his arms, he sat on a couch in front of his sister-in-law.

"You look unwell," remarked Linneth softly.

Placing his chin on top of Nimloth's head, he examined Linneth. Her eyes seemed strained, and her normally pale skin seemed paler. "I could say the same for you."

"It is Galathil," she said abruptly. "I worry for him, especially now that Thingol seems even more tense." Guilt overcame Celeborn – what would Linneth say when she found out her husband would be in even greater danger? "And now that there are dragons –" she broke off as her eyes fell upon her daughter. Celeborn was about to set Nimloth down and send her away to continue the conversation, but Linneth held up a shaky hand. "No, do not do that. She has been waiting to see you all day. I can wait."

He kissed the top of Nimloth's head. "If you wish it. But you know that I am always ready to listen to you."

"I know." She gave him a gentle smile as she rose. "There are some things I must see to, so I will leave you two alone." She came over and pressed a hand to Celeborn's cheek. "You are so good to me."

A pang filled Celeborn's chest as he watched her walk away. Under different circumstances, Linneth would have been his wife, and Nimloth his child. But then again, perhaps those different circumstances were not for the better. Like his mother, Celeborn placed a great deal of trust in fate. Fate and a good deal of luck.

"Come, sweetling. The sun is about to set." Nimloth jumped from his lap eagerly; sunset was her favorite time of the day. They walked to their favorite vantage point – the top of a hill that overlooked the crest of the trees. Laying on his back, his niece tucked into his side, Celeborn remembered just why he loved being alive in Doriath. It was a cool summer night, and the sun was now preparing to set. Pinks, oranges, and reds streaked the vast expanse of the sky, a soothing reminder that the sun would be returning tomorrow, the day after, and the many days after that.

Many of his people despised the sun and moon, many who still grieved for the undiluted starlight. Celeborn himself had been one of those, but over time, he had learned to love the light of the sun.

When Nimloth had been very young, he, Galathil, and Linneth would tell the young girl different tales of the sun. Galathil said that the sun was a warrior and was hurrying across the sky to save helpless people in danger. Linneth would say that the sun was dreaming about going on a wonderful adventure far beyond the confines of Middle Earth. But Celeborn's story was always the same – the sun was a beautiful and kind princess from the west. She wandered too far from home and became lost in the east, where the silver moon fell in love with her. The moon hurried after her but could never seem to catch her. She would always run far away towards the west, her home, and the moon would chase her across the sky.

And when he told this story, Nimloth would wonder why her uncle seemed sad.

_Year 365 of the First Age – Ossiriand_

Winter had settled in with its usual mildness in Ossiriand. Further north, great gales of icy wind and unceasing snow characterized winter. But in the south, snowfall was occasional at best. Still, the Elves had prepared by gathering and preserving crops and meat, in case the winter took a turn for the worse.

Under Artanis's persuasion, the Green Elves had begun reluctant trade with their Avari neighbors to the northeast. She knew the value of commerce – that without commerce, there was no civilization. Nurwë had accepted Artanis's half-hearted explanation as to why she was insisting on trade, but Orimor, Nurwë's son, had not bothered to hide his gratitude.

"Perhaps there is some hope for my people," he had told her, for the new trade had increased the coffers of the Avari.

However, Artanis could not deny that this new trade was also helping her. The Avari Nation, perhaps due to their untrusting and desperate state, had no formal ties to either Thingol or Morgoth. As such, the Avari tended to interact with both sides, thereby giving themselves the advantage. Generally, the Avari were close-lipped with what news and troop movements they heard from their own spies, but Artanis had managed to win some sort of half-hearted trust with them. And being a wily Finwëan, she used this trust to her advantage.

Regardless of race, merchants anywhere were terrible gossips and the best way to spread information. Trade with them had allowed Artanis the opportunity to be included in this circle of information. The Avari would often share news of the Dark Lord's movements and current projects; these reports were surprisingly more accurate than the information gathered by Noldorin and Sindarin scouts.

It was only a few decades since Finrod had stumbled upon the Second born. He had been hunting with Maedhros and Maglor but had soon wearied, choosing instead to travel south to see his sister in Ossiriand. But he had come upon the sleeping Atani one night, and thereafter they had held his heart.

He had sent tidings to his sister about these new creatures, and Artanis, having met them at his behest, admitted they had a rustic and innocent charm that the Eldar no longer possessed. But unlike Finrod, she was too caught up in the troubles of her own people to be overly concerned with the fate of the Second born. Furthermore, the Green Elves themselves were unhappy with the migration of the Atani into Beleriand. Resentment festered among the otherwise happy and peaceful Elves, and Artanis was helpless to stop it. She knew that in time, the new race would be in danger of the Green Elves. And try as she might, she could not help agreeing with them. In their eyes, the Atani were the invaders that threatened to take over the lands that the Green Elves had so lovingly nourished.

Again, she persuaded the tribal leaders to talk amongst themselves, and in a council, the Elves of Ossiriand sent a polite but firm missive to Finrod in the north country (2).

In a letter of her own, she pleaded with her brother to understand that the Atani would find no welcome here, and if she were to intervene, she would lose her position of trust with these people – something that she could not afford just yet. She ended her message by saying: "The destinies of our people do not flow in the same river as theirs, Brother." And while she did not tell her brother so, she felt puzzled at Finrod's care and responsibility – misplaced, in her mind – for these new people. Deep in her heart, she feared that Finrod's tender nature would compel him to be the protector of men.

Her interest in the Naugrim, on the other hand, bordered on fascination and reluctant respect, especially when it concerned their craftsmanship. For she was of the Noldor, and she herself had a more than passing interest in the "Rock-born," a name snidely given to the Naugrim by Caranthir. It had amused her to no end to watch Caranthir interact with the Dwarves. Caranthir had always been the proudest and most arrogant of her family save Fëanor, and the Naugrim, while stout-hearted and skilled, were extremely unlovely.

In her most recent letter to Fingolfin, she had included a sketch of Caranthir and the Naugrim leader standing together. Her uncle would have several laughs over that, she knew.

Fingolfin's letters to her had been growing tenser and shorter with each passing year. He had informed her that Aredhel was lost in the dark forests of Nam Elmoth, and while he wished for nothing more than to send out search parties for her, his men were needed at the front. Furthermore, a large incursion of Noldorin warriors into the forests might anger Thingol.

The Noldor were still suffering from the last time Thingol had grown angered at them.

To her surprise, Fingolfin had welcomed the Atani into his services, as did Maedhros and Finrod. But according to Melian, Thingol remained unfriendly to these new peoples and kept Doriath closed against them.  


_From Melian Queen of Doriath to Galadriel Granddaughter of Olwë:_

_My Dear Child,_

_As you must well be aware, scores of years have passed since you last set foot within the lands of your mother's kin. Your brothers are far more faithful in their duties to King Thingol and I, and from them we receive what few tidings they have of you._

_I am sure that you know of the recent events involving the Atani, so I will not waste time repeating them – yes, unlike all others, I know why you are so assiduously courting the wandering merchants. My king does not trust this new race – he much prefers the Naugrim, in fact. However, I share not his faith that Doriath will remain secure if he closes his borders. Now the world runs on swiftly to great tidings. And one of Men, even of Bëor's house, shall indeed come, and the Girdle of Melian shall not restrain him, for doom greater than my power shall send him; and the songs that shall spring from that coming shall endure when all Middle-earth is changed (3)._

_The letter continued with more details of royal decrees and court gossip, only to end with,_

_There is too much for me to say, and I find that parchment is inadequate. Your presence here would be greatly appreciated, both by my king and I, as well as your cousins. Luthien has been most anxious to see you. Furthermore, you have yet to see Galathil's daughter, Nimloth. She is quite lovely and shares her mother's delicate countenance._

_Luthien also wants me to add that if you can, she would be grateful if you could bring back several bolts of muslin (4) from Ossiriand._

Artanis had only shaken her head and began preparing for her journey west.

_Year 389 of the First Age – Doriath_

Nimloth indeed was very lovely, and her name was more than fitting. Her skin was pale, and with a crown of dark, glossy hair, she did resemble a sort of ethereal flower. Galathil and Linneth adored their daughter, as did Celeborn, who played the doting uncle quite well.

She tried hard to avoid Celeborn, but for all the vastness of Menegroth, not even a thousand caves were enough to prevent her from seeing him several times a day. It was not that she disliked Celeborn; in fact, she was quite fond of his company. But she did not like the unwelcome feelings that he stirred within her. She did not like feeling unnerved by his presence and angered by Linneth's, and she most certainly did not like the fear and uncertainly that followed.

She had far too many things to fear, at any rate.

In Doriath, she was Galadriel again. People were much friendlier to her now that she had a Sindarin name, and while it was a beautiful name, her heart tightened any time someone would address her by it.

She missed her father.

In her free time, she had taken to strolling the gardens. Her long sojourn in Ossiriand had taught her to adore the forests and trees, and she now found little pleasure in dwelling in the halls of stone. Today was one such day, but on her way out, Celeborn himself intercepted her.

"May I accompany you?" he asked gravely.

"Of course, my lord." She accepted his arm with a sense of fear mingled with another unnamed emotion.

They strolled quietly, each of them basking in the sunlight, as well as in the company of the other. As they walked on, people would give them admiring glances, for they were both tall people, one as silver as the other gold.

"Galadriel, have I angered you?"

She glanced at him in surprise. "Why would you think that?" she asked curiously.

He turned his eyes to her. "It seems that you have been avoiding me, as of late."

"Please forgive me if it seemed so, my lord, but I have been occupied by Melian." That was partially true, for Melian often monopolized her time. "I meant no offense, Celeborn."

The use of his name dissolved the formal atmosphere. "Then I am glad to here it." They walked silently for a while longer, until, "I will be leaving on the king's business the next morn."

"What sort of business?" she asked with interest.

"I am seeking someone."

Suddenly, the information fell into place for her. "You are seeking for that spy again, are you not?"

Sorrow shaded his voice. "We have reason to believe that he is hiding in one of the wandering groups."

"Celeborn," she said imploringly, "This will not be a danger to you, will it?"

A strange expression crossed his face. "Does that matter so much to you?"

"Of course it matters. You are my cousin, and a dear friend besides," she said indignantly. He said nothing in reply as he kept his clear gaze upon her face. Some understanding hovered in his eyes, something that she did not quite comprehend.

"We Sindar are a strong and sturdy lot," he said with a gentle smile. "It shall take more than a sniveling traitor to kill me."

She reluctantly nodded. "When will you return?"

"In a fortnight, I expect. I do not have far to travel, for the company I am interested in is just outside of our borders."

Something prompted her to say sincerely: "You are a good friend, Celeborn."

He released her arm, and in a surprising move, he took a hold of her hands and rubbed them within his. "There are many bonds other than friendship."

Her eyes dropped to their entwined hands. "Oh?"

"Yes," he said softly. He paused, and then "Galadriel," he began hesitantly, "I have been meaning to ask you–" But before he could say more, a messenger interrupted, and she was startled to see the irritation and frustration in Celeborn's normally calm eyes.

"My lord, the king has asked for you."

Celeborn acknowledged the messenger and turned to her, the anger in his eyes disappearing. "I am needed, it seems." He smiled at her gently before bowing and then striding away.

_Year 420 of the First Age – Dorthonion_

"Frankly, I think she looks better than she has in ages." This chirpy comment came from Angrod, who was currently tilting his sister's face in all sorts of directions. "Exercise has added color to her face."

Aegnor wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "She easily could be getting that here. I daresay that Dorthonion would be all the better under her management." He waggled his eyebrows. "We would be better off under your management as well."

Artanis laughingly pushed her brothers away. Having only arrived moments before, she had been immediately swept into their embraces, as each brother fought to be the recipient of the first embrace. "You sound jealous, Brother."

"Of backwards-dwelling Elves?" scoffed Aegnor. At his sister's pointed glance, he amended, "Green Elves. Perhaps we are in a way, for you have not come here in well-nigh over a hundred years."

"Your fair face has been missed," added Angrod.

"Yet both of you have still remained miscreants in my absence," she said archly.

The brothers shook their heads. "Miscreants, she calls us. Whatever happened to 'Dear Brothers' or 'My Idols'?" asked Angrod sadly. "Besides, the real miscreants are the Twins."

The other brother nodded his head. "Oh yes. Do you know what Amrod and Amras did to Curufin's saddle?" The three of them headed into the outpost settlement.

"Do not tell me anymore!" exclaimed Artanis after hearing the tale. "Or else I shall never be able to accept their hospitality again for fear of such mischief."

But her brothers, being who they were, paid no heed to her pleas and continued on with their story telling and gossiping. Artanis shook her head wearily but felt happy all the same. Her brothers, all four of them, were so very dear to her. They had remained constant through the terrible years behind her, and by the grace of the Valar – if the Valar had any grace left for the Noldor – the horror of the oncoming years would be easier to bear with the company of her family.

Angrod's voice roused her from her contemplation. "Curufin was scandalized, of course, but the Twins just pretended that they had not noticed."

"Miscreants, I tell you," said Aegnor.

Notes:

\- (1) The child in question is Nimloth, who will later marry Dior son of Luthien and Beren. This in fact makes Nimloth much older than Dior (especially since Beren has not yet been born), but I take this to be acceptable, for both Luthien and Idril were far older than their husbands.

\- (2) This letter is directly from "Of the Coming of Men Into the West," _The Silmarillion _, Page 166, Second Edition. It read:__

___Lord,_ _ _

___If you have power over these newcomers, bid them return by the ways that they came, or else go forward. For we desire no strangers in this land to break the peace in which we live. And these folks are hewers of trees and hunters of beasts; therefore we are their unfriends, and if they will not depart we shall afflict them in all ways that we can._ _ _

__\- (3) "Now the...changed." Directly from "Of the Coming of Men Into the West," _The Silmarillion_ , Page 166, Second Edition._ _

__\- (4) Not being very well versed in Elven fabric, I am taking the liberty of assuming that some form of muslin was used by the Eldar.  
_ _


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

_Year 455 of the First Age – Doriath_

The lone figure seated on the carved garden bench was a sight that was sorrowful even to the most joyful of people – including Luthien Tinuviel, who was currently debating on whether to approach the still figure of her cousin.

When the news of Morgoth's surprise attack on the Noldor had first reached Thingol, Galadriel had immediately requested leave from the king to go join her family. But Thingol had closed his borders so that no one could enter or leave – including his own grandniece. The argument between Luthien's father and Galadriel had been long and bitter, and finally, they had sought Melian's opinion, which was similar to her husband’s.

Ever since then, Galadriel had withdrawn into her own company, refusing contact with all save for Linneth, and at times, Celeborn. And although Luthien was glad that at least one of her cousins was safe within the enchanted borders, she also understood the devastation that Galadriel was feeling. To be unable to help her most beloved kindred...and to face each day with the fear that Thingol's couriers would bring unwelcome news.

Steeling her spine, Luthien clutched the basket of fruits more securely and walked towards her cousin. "Good day, my lady." As casually as she could, Luthien sat next to her. "A fresh harvest of fruits was delivered this very morning. I wanted to share them with you."

Galadriel barely spared her a glance. "Thank you for your kindness, Princess, but you needn't have bothered."

Determined not to be put off, Luthien continued amicably, "But I have bothered, so I suppose we must eat them."

"Perhaps later then." Galadriel kept her eyes fixed toward the horizon.

"Galadriel," said Luthien pleadingly, "please, you must eat. You are growing weaker by the day, and you will soon collapse." This was no exaggeration, as Galadriel's healthy frame had become frighteningly slender, her skin had taken on a pale, waxy sheen, and her hair had lost its luster.

"Do you know that Fingolfin was more foresighted than any of us had ever imagined?" The question was asked abruptly.

"What do you mean?" Perhaps if Galadriel kept talking, Luthien could secretly insert apple slices into her cousin's mouth.

Galadriel chuckled humorlessly. "For many years, Fingolfin spoke of attacking Morgoth when my people were strongest, when both men and Elves filled the ranks of our armies. But we took to enjoying the harvests of our lands and paid him no heed. Only my younger brothers, Angrod and Aegnor, listened." Another empty laugh. "But I did not."

"Morgoth has attacked your people before. What makes this time any different?"

The pale blue eyes narrowed. "Morgoth is impulsive – he rarely takes time to plan, instead preferring to ride out waves of anger and hatred. But this attack – it must have been planned for years." Galadriel clenched her hands. "A foe who thinks is dangerous."

Luthien laid a comforting hand on Galadriel's arm. "The grace of the Valar will see your family through." The common phrase had slipped from Luthien's mouth unguarded.

"The grace of the Valar would only be aiding Morgoth." A pause, and then: "I could be there with them!" she cried passionately. "I am a skilled warrior, and as a Princess of the Noldor, I belong with my people."

"But one more soldier will not make a difference in the outcome."

"Will it not? I would like to think otherwise. But in any case, it makes a difference to me." And in the face of such logic, Luthien could only agree as she munched on an apple. The two women lapsed into silence until Galadriel spoke again. "I wonder if my cousin Turgon will emerge from his hidden kingdom." Luthien tried to imagine what the hidden kingdom would look like, but she could only imagine rough tents set up in a cave. "Perhaps Glorfindel accompanies him."

Luthien heard the rare wistfulness in Galadriel's voice. "Perhaps," echoed Luthien, a strange anger filling her chest. _Galadriel is blind, as are all her kin who have journeyed over the waters._ “Once, in the earliest days of our acquaintance, I asked who you were, and you said to me, ‘I am the woman who loves Glorfindel, and that is all there is to me.’ Did you mean that?”

“The woman who said it certainly meant it,” agreed Galadriel.

It had been a strange thing to hear. This woman, this powerful, beautiful woman, had briefly defined herself by the love she held for another. What kind of love must it have been! But then again, Lord Glorfindel was an exceptional Elf, wise in the ways of the ancient Vanyar kindred, yet still filled with the temperament of the Noldor. The pity that Luthien had originally held for Galadriel vanished, only to be replaced by a reluctant envy.

And she wondered if one day she herself would be able to say, “I am Luthien, and I love this man. That is all there is to me.”

  
As dawn fell to dusk, Artanis maintained her vigil on the carved bench, the place where she and Finrod used to sit during their visits to Menegroth. Luthien’s fruit basket lay untouched at her side – a reminder of the disturbing conversation they had earlier. Generally, Artanis did not spend much time reflecting on the choices she had already made but instead on the choices ahead of her. She rarely dwelled on the Kinslaying anymore although it remained a guilty blemish on her conscience, and she certainly never thought about why she loved Glorfindel – only that she did. For her, the question had always been, “What next?”

But today, she had been forced to admit that what she and Glorfindel had shared was now only a fond memory, and even if he were to return from Turgon’s hidden city, she knew that he would not want her back. She had rejected him in favor of politics, and he would never be able to forgive her. Glorfindel, even with the calm Vanyar blood running though his veins, was still a man (1), and he had his pride too.

Briefly, she allowed herself the luxury to imagine what life could have been like, and it was a nice fantasy, to be sure, but that was all it was – a fantasy. Long ago, she had seen the possibility of this future, but she had turned away from it. Insteads she had chosen Fëanor, who had promised neither happiness nor riches but power.

But the path to power was one to be made alone, and as prepared as she had been to accept it, when faced with the harsh reality of loneliness, she had almost turned away from Fëanor’s promise.

Almost.

For now, she would ride the wave of fate as Olwë had taught her.

“My lady?” The tentative inquiry disturbed Artanis’s reverie. She looked up to see one of Luthien’s handmaidens. “The king requests your presence, my lady.”

Surprised, she stood and smoothed her skirts. Ever since their argument, Thingol had left his grandniece alone. “Of course. Did he mention why?”

The girl shook her head. “No, my lady…but word has it that a courier has arrived from the battle.”

Fear kept her rooted to the spot. “I see.” She tried to banish images of the horrifying possibilities. She might have stood there all day, but the concerned eyes of the girl reminded her that the king had requested her audience. “The king is in the throne room?”

“In the council room, my lady.”

Artanis nodded. “Thank you. You are dismissed.” The girl bowed and departed, thus leaving Artanis to find her way to the council room herself. When she finally arrived, Thingol was waiting for her, and a dirty courier stood at his side.

Their faces were expressionless – just as hers was. “I was summoned, my lord?” The question was spoken very calmly, as if the king had only summoned her to ask if she wanted to eat berries or nuts.

“Yes, Grandniece. Celeborn has just arrived from the front.” It was then that Artanis recognized the dirty courier as Celeborn. He was attired in armor – a sight Artanis had rarely seen before, and so streaked with blood and dirt that he was hardly recognizable.

“Galadriel.” Celeborn said her name softly, and she knew, she _knew…._

_Oh Valar, not my brothers. Please not my brothers. Not Finrod. Please not Finrod._ “What news from the front, my lord?” And she knew that he would tell her anything she asked, even if it hurt her, for she was no angel to be protected but a woman capable of judging the amount of hurt that she could withstand.

He told her all that he knew, of the deaths of Angrod and Aegnor, the loss of Pass of Aglon, that Hithlum and Himring remained unconquered, and of Fingolfin’s valiant death. Through it all, Artanis sat stiffly, her face pale and her lips clamped shut. When it was finally over, Celeborn abandoned his post next to the king, and kneeling at her feet, he touched her hand – a light, undemanding touch telling her that although he was no rock for her to lean on, she had his sympathies. “I am sorry, Galadriel.”

Mutely she accepted his condolences, all the while thanking fate for leaving Finrod unharmed – and feeling guilty for thinking so. Angrod and Aegnor were dear to her as well, and Fingolfin had in many ways understood her more than her father and Fëanor ever had. But cold practicality demanded that she acknowledge her preference, which had been granted.

Turning to Thingol, she requested formally, “My lord, I would like your permission to return to Finrod.”

Thingol hesitated, the fear for her safety evident in his gray eyes. Celeborn, seeing his hesitation, offered, “My lord, perhaps if the princess has an escort?”

“I need no escort, my lords.” Artanis did not relish sharing a long ride with Thingol’s warriors. “Besides, sire, all your men are needed here.”

“That is so, but I cannot allow you to leave Doriath unescorted. Especially now, when the countryside is swarming with Orcs and other foul creatures. I shall send Celeborn with you, for I would like him to speak to Fingon for me. As he is now the King of the Noldor, I must acknowledge his kingship, or else the Sindar will not recognize him.” He gave his niece a stern glance laced with gentleness. “Is that acceptable to you, Grandniece?”

She nodded. “Yes, my lord.” She looked away briefly so that neither the king nor Celeborn would see the grief in her eyes. “If it is permitted, my lord, I would like to retire to my chambers.”

“Of course.” Thingol came towards her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Your brothers died valiantly, and they are a credit to your race. Surely you can recognize that, my child?”

Artanis nodded. “Yes, sire.” With a final curtsey, she left the chamber, which had grown oppressive with the sympathies of both Celeborn and the king.

 

The journey to Nargothrond passed in silence. Celeborn left Artanis to her thoughts, instead speaking with the dozen warriors that had also come with them. She was grateful for the reprieve, but then again, Celeborn had always known when she wanted silence and when she wanted to speak.

The journey took longer than it usually did, for the battle had left the terrain rough and dangerous. They would pass by large stinking piles of burnt Orc bodies, but because it was Elvish custom to remove the bodies of their fallen warriors right away, no Elvish bodies were left behind for the Orcs to collect. But in the hastiness of retreat, they must have been unable to collect fallen equipment, which explained why Artanis and her party would periodically come across bits of Elvish armor or other such belongings. Thingol’s warriors had silently made it their task to collect the belongings of their dead brethren so that they could be returned to Finrod at Nargothrond.

They encountered no resistance from Finrod’s watchmen in the hills although Artanis knew that there were several arrows trained on them during every moment of their journey. Finally, only a few miles from the entrance, Edrahil, one of Finrod’s chieftains, came to greet them. “Welcome, Lady Artanis.”

“Captain, I am glad to see that you have survived unscathed.” Artanis perused the tall form of Edrahil. Other than for the tiredness etched in his handsome features, he looked healthy.

“Not unscathed, lady. Not in here.” He tapped his breast.

Artanis nodded in understanding, and then turning to the silver-haired Elf to her side, “My lord, may I present to you Edrahil, one of my brother‘s most loyal war captains?”

Edrahil bowed. “It is a honor, my lord.”

“I assure you, Captain, that the honor is mine.” Celeborn clasped Edrahil’s arms in kinship. “We in Doriath have heard of your people’s courage and valiant defense.”

The captain looked saddened. “It was not enough, sir.”

“In war, nothing is enough. But we all try,” said Celeborn gently. “And that is all we can do.”

Artanis watched the exchange with a certain degree of gladness. Celeborn, with his quiet praise, knew exactly how to restore Edrahil’s faith in himself. “Captain, would be so kind as to direct us to my brother?” she asked.

“King Felagund is in the southern caves, my lady.” Edrahil beckoned one of his lieutenants to see to the needs of Celeborn’s escort, and then he led them past the main halls to the caves further beyond. “There are so many wounded that the infirmary could no longer hold all of the soldiers, so the King ordered a temporary infirmary built in the outer caves of Nargothrond. These caves have more fresh air and some sunlight, which the king insisted that the patients would require.”

Artanis chuckled. “It certainly does sound like Finrod.” As the group drew closer to the infirmary, the air took on a stifled stench. Though it smelled like lavender and other pleasant scents, the stench of death and blood was also mixed in.

“Ai Elbereth!” exclaimed Celeborn upon entrance to the infirmary. Hundreds of makeshift beds were scattered throughout the room as patients with various injuries waited to be examined by the very few healers available.

“Everyday, more wounded are brought in,” said Edrahil sadly. “The healers and their apprentices tirelessly work day and night, but still the injured are overwhelming.” The captain scanned the room. “Lord Finrod is over there, my lady.” He pointed to a shadowed corner of the room. Artanis thanked him gratefully, and then with Celeborn a few steps behind her, she made her way to her brother.

Finrod was sitting slumped in a chair, his golden hair matted with dirt, grime, and blood. A normally impeccable dresser, his tunic and leggings were torn in several places, and the original color of the garments was not even recognizable. Only his harp was clean, which lay limply in his hands. In front of the king lay a small Elf-lad, his chest bandaged very securely.

Artanis must have made some sort of noise, for Finrod’s head shot up. “Artanis?” The question was part hope and part fear.

She went around the bed to kneel at her brother’s feet. “I came as quickly as I could.”

“Thank the Valar for you, sister.” He wrapped his arms around her, and for a long moment, they remained holding each other as Celeborn quietly watched on. Finrod finally released his sister, and although much of the dirt from Finrod’s clothes had transferred itself to Artanis’s, she did not care in the least. Finrod was alive and well right in front of her eyes. That was all the mattered at the moment.

Artanis took a deep breath as she searched for what to say. “You were playing your harp?” was the first thing that came to mind. She did not want to ask about her other brothers just yet.

“Yes.” Finrod set the harp on the floor. “We found this boy on the fields – I suspect he must have followed his father to battle. He is so injured that the healers hold little hope for his survival.” Finrod gently caressed the sleeping boy’s hair. “He was crying for his parents, so I thought that if I sang for him, he could finally seek rest.”

“And what of you? Have you rested?” The question was asked gently.

He rubbed his eyes. “Perhaps later,” he said vaguely. “I will not be able to rest until everyone is safely inside these caves.” Fully aware of Finrod’s stubbornness, Artanis did not press the issue.

“My lord?” It was Celeborn, whose quiet presence had been forgotten.

Finrod looked abashed. “Forgive me, Celeborn. I meant no disrespect.”

“None taken, my lord,” assured Celeborn. “I would like your permission to send for Sindarin healers. Your own are overwhelmed, and I am sure they would be glad for more help.”

“That would be very much appreciated, Celeborn,” said Finrod gratefully. The silver-haired prince nodded as he took his leave, undoubtedly seeking a messenger to go bring more help from the villages outside Doriath.

Once he left, Finrod turned to his sister. “He is very kind.”

“Yes, he is,” she agreed.

He took her hand and led her through a long hallway and into his study.

Finrod spoke again. “Thankfully, we are almost done with the burials. I do not think I could stomach anymore…” his voiced trailed off. In Aman, the Eldar had never thought about burial, but when the Noldor arrived in Middle-Earth, they had been forced to deal with burial rites. The Sindar, they had learned, preferred to bury their dead deep within the forests, so that their bodies would return to the very woods that had fostered them. Most of the Noldor had accepted this tradition, but the Fëanorians instead preferred to burn the bodies to ashes – a tradition that had its roots in the death of Fëanor. (2)

“What of Angrod and Aegnor?” she asked softly.

“Their bodies were buried with the others in Dorthonion.” His eyes glistened with silent tears. “I wanted to bring their bodies here so that we could perform the final rites ourselves, but it was too dangerous to transport bodies, as Ard Galen is still teeming with Orc parties. But Vastian, Angrod’s lieutenant, brought me these.” He removed two knives from his belt. “I suppose these will do,” murmured Finrod.

Her breath hitched as she fingered the blades carefully. “Their hunting knives.” She remained silent for a few moments as memories of Angrod and Aegnor overcame her. “Where is Orodreth?” she finally asked.

“He has returned to Minas Tirith.” Finrod exhaled softly. “He is in a bad state, Artanis.”

“He was closer to Angrod and Aegnor than we were.” She lovingly caressed Aegnor’s knife.

Finrod nodded sorrowfully. “Yes, he was. It is strange, really, but I always considered these two to be the youngest in our family. You always seemed older than they.”

Artanis’s hand dropped as she fell into a chair. “At times I felt like an older sister – both were so full of mischief.”

Leaving her side, he tenderly wrapped the knives in cloth, which he placed on his desk, and then went to stand by the fireplace. He stretched out his hands, his elegant hands that wielded the harp just as easily as it wielded a stonecutter’s tool or a sword, as he sought warmth from the fire.

Except something was missing. “Finrod, where is your ring?”

Finrod sighed and placed his hands on the mantle for support. “I gave it away.”

“You gave away father’s ring?” Artanis was flabbergasted.

“Yes.” And then he told her what had transpired, of how he had almost died, and of how the mortal Barahir had come to his rescue. “It is an honor debt, sister.”

“To a mortal,” she said flatly.

Finrod passed a hand over his eyes. “Artanis, honor is honor, regardless of where it is found.”

Her hands clenched in her lap. “But now you are bound to this man – and to all his descendents.”

“Artanis, I-”

She did not allow him to continue. “Over the years, I have watched you grow attached to the Atani with many misgivings, but I had thought that you would not abandon common sense for them! Finrod,” she said imploringly, “You spend most of your days concerned with the fate of these men, yet you hardly ever think of our own.”

“That is not true, Artanis.”

“Is it not?” She shook her head. “You say that Barahir saved your life today. But tell me, was he the only one? How many of our people have taken arrows in your stead, have followed you from place to place, and have given up their dreams to fulfill the dreams of their lord?” Her voice was rising in a crescendo. “So why have you chosen to honor this mortal, brother? Why him?”

Finrod did not answer for several moments. And then, clenching his jaws: “Because he did not have to. “The only thing I could give him was my oath.”

A sense of dread filled her. “This may lead to your death, Finrod,” she said.

“So be it,” he said with cold finality.

This situation was achingly familiar. Except last time, she had stood in front of her father and had severed all times with him. She could not, would not, do the same with Finrod, as much as his decision made her upset.

So for the first time in her life, she backed down and gave into her brother. “Very well then. It will be as you say. The House of Finarfin shall aid any of those of Barahir’s line. I promise that I will offer them help should they ever seek it.”

“It is not your debt.”

“But it is. You gave them the ring of Finarfin, and though it was yours, I am also bound to it.”

He closed his eyes in relief. “Thank you, Artanis.” He placed his hands above the fire again, as if a sudden chill had overcome him. “Celeborn will be leaving for Hithlum in a fortnight. I understand that he is conveying a message from Thingol.”

“Yes, he is.” Artanis joined her brother at the fire, hoping that the fire would ward off the lingering cold dread regarding Finrod’s oath. “I have a mind to accompany him.”

“You just arrived today.”

She nodded regretfully. “Yes, but I had a duty to Fingolfin, and I imagine that I now have a duty to Fingon.”

Disappointment etched Finrod’s features. “Forgive me for sounding selfish, sister, but I had hoped that you would remain here and spend time with me.”

“After I come back from Hithlum, I will stay here.” She offered a tentative smile. “Unless you put me out, of course.”

 

“You need not worry about anything, Artanis.” Fingon offered her a tray of fruits and then took a seat behind his desk. Fingolfin’s desk, she corrected herself. The open windows in the study allowed for maximum sunlight, and when Fingon stood in front of the window, his features would be appear less distinguishable, and it would seem, only for a few brief moments, that Fingolfin had returned to life. But Fingon, though he had the look of his father, shared little else with him. The traits that Fingolfin had taken with him to his grave, the shrewdness, the sly cunning, seemed to linger near the birch desk, which caused Fingon to appear dwarfed – almost as if he could not compete with his father’s legacy.

“But-“

He shook his head, the crown of his kingship gleaming in the sunlight. “He released you from all obligations. And he left you with this letter.” He handed her a scroll. “I imagine that he explained himself.”

“Ah.” She did not know what else to say. If Fingon had no more uses for her, then what was she to do? “What will be done with the province in Ossiriand?”

“I will probably send some of my people over there. Although Ossiriand was not attacked, the regions surrounding it are unstable, especially now that Thargelion is not there as a buffer anymore.”

Artanis contemplated this silently. Fingon had a point in that a greater military force would be required to keep Ossiriand, rich with farmlands and Green Elves, from falling to the enemy. But was Fingon the one to provide it? “Perhaps it would be better if Maedhros sent some of his own people. Himring is closer, and he already has a relationship with them.”

Fingon frowned. “Maedhros is overtaxed. I cannot ask more from him.”

_He also wants his own people there, and I am not considered one of them anymore. When did he stop trusting me?_ But then again, Fingon was no longer a prince who could freely give his trust to anyone, including his cousins.

Artanis shrugged delicately. “It is your prerogative. Where is Ereinion? And Seniel?” she asked, referring to his son and wife.

“I sent Ereinion to be fostered with Cirdan at the Havens.” His features grew heavy. “It is too dangerous here, and I do not know if Hithlum can hold against another assault.” But then his features brightened. “Senial is still here, however.”

“She would not leave?”

Fingon chuckled ruefully. “No, she would not. But Senial is a woman with the skills to defend herself. Ereinion is but a child.” He paused, and then: “I received a missive from Turgon this morning. He…received my father’s body.” Not knowing what to say, she kept silent. “Turgon built a cairn fom him on top of the mountains. It would have been nice if I could have been there as well.” Fingon looked out the windows in the direction of the Havens. “I wonder if one day my son will bury me. Far better, however, than burying my son.”

She nodded sympathetically. “Cirdan will keep Ereinion safe.”

“Yes, he will.” Suddenly brisk, “Artanis, do forgive me. It is selfish of me to complain over not being able to bury my father when you could not bury your brothers.”

“I did not come here for comfort, Fingon,” she said pointedly.

He smiled. “No, you did not. I daresay that you seek comfort from no one.”

She raised her brows. “There is Finrod.”

Fingon waved that away. “I would wager that it is you who comforts him.” A sharp rap at the door indicated that her time was up. “I have an appointment with my steward,” he said apologetically.

“I did not mean to keep you.” Artanis stood, Fingolfin’s scroll burning in her hands.

“You did not keep me. I enjoyed speaking with you Artanis, and I hope we will speak like this again before you leave.” He walked her to the door, but before she could open it, “Your friend, Celeborn, has relayed Thingol’s message to me.”

Her eyes sharpened. “What did he say?”

“What I expected. He offered his condolences on Father’s death and he welcomed me as the new king.” He sighed in frustration. “He will never be our ally, will he?”

She shook her head in denial. “Thingol is still angry, and he is as proud as ever. He is determined to prove that he can survive without the Noldor.”

“Can he?”

“As long as Melian is with him. But they can only keep Doriath safe – not the lands surrounding it.”

He placed a hand on he shoulder. “One day, he will need our help.”

She placed her hand over his. “Will we give it to him?”

“I do not know.” Another rap on the door. “I must put you out, Artanis. I trust I will see you at tonight’s meal?”

She inclined her head gracefully. “Of course.” She strolled through the door he held open for her, and after exchanging greetings with the steward, she made her way outdoors. She had grown accustomed to the habit of reading letters outside, and although she burned with impatience to read Fingolfin’s scroll, she had to find the perfect spot to read it from.

The gardens at Hithlum were a far cry from the ones at Doriath, or even the ones she had in Ossiriand. But Hithlum was a fortress, so the fact that it even had an enclosed patch of greenery was surprising. Thanks in part to the efforts of Senial, blooms and various trees were flourishing. Unfortunately, several people were strolling the gardens, and because the area was so small, Artanis was guaranteed no privacy.

She hissed in irritation as she tried to think of another place to read the letter – and looked up.

A few minutes later, she was securely seated on the branch of an oak tree, too high above the ground to be bothered, or in fact, noticed.

_My dear niece,_

_I wrote this letter in the event that I would die without being able to say goodbye. The times are harsh, so can you fault an old Elf for having as many contingency plans as possible?_

_I have instructed Fingon to release you from all obligations that you had to me. This includes the one regarding your marriage to a son of Fëanor. Fingon would not have asked that of you, but I cannot speak of Turgon, or if my grandson ever becomes king, Ereinion. I thought it best to release you from your promise now. And because I am dead (as you would not have received this letter otherwise), you cannot argue with me._

_By now you know that I have given Ossiriand to Fingon, although by rights, the region should have been yours. No one is more deserving of her own realm than you, Artanis, and I know that you are capable of maintaining that land. But I have foreseen some problems. If I had left Ossiriand to you, you would have been besieged by suitors night and day. Caranthir, in particular, has evinced much interest in your land and has on several occasions attempted to buy it from me. Knowing Caranthir, I imagine he would have manipulated you into some position (perhaps he would threaten the Green Elves, or even the Avari) so that you would have no choice but to marry him._

_Caranthir will certainly not consider marrying Fingon for the land – or perhaps I should not make too many assumptions regarding Caranthir._

_I do not want you to think that you are without assets. I know that you gave Finrod whatever valuables you possessed to aid him when he first began constructing Nargothrond, and whatever other fortunes you had were tied up in Ossiriand. A significant portion of money has been put aside in the treasury for you. Consider it for services rendered in Ossiriand. This money is for your use. Whatever you wish to do with it – to start building a kingdom somewhere, to buy presents with, to buy dresses, etc., is completely up to you._

_Now that the business part is over –_

_I would like you to know that although it may have seemed so on many occasions, you never were a pawn to me. My brothers, as much as they loved you, treated you as one. I cannot, indeed, will not, apologize on their behalf, nor I will not deny you were an asset to me. But I have sought to be honest in my motives regarding you, and if I have ever used you, I have always told you first. You are a woman of honor, and I knew that as long as you were bound to me, you would not deceive me. Therefore, I knew that I did not have to deceive you._

_When my brothers began to fight over you, I thought them both silly. Fëanor and Finarfin, two princes of the Noldor, quarreling over a young girl – the reason for the great impasse between them. Fëanor saw his qualities within you, and Finarfin tried to fill you with his._

_How strange for me to realize that I understand now, and perhaps, if I had known then what I do now, and if my temperament were different than what it is, I too would have fought over you. Like me, you are stubborn and cold, and you know when to yield a small dream to get a bigger one. But my temperament being what it is, I will not say that I wish you had been my daughter, for that is not true. If you had been my daughter, I would have seen you from a father’s eyes, and not as an adult fully capable of making decisions on her own. By the same token, I do not love you either, except perhaps in the distant way I love the people of my House._

_Your judgment has always been of value to me, as was your advice and companionship. I will not console you by saying that the Valar will forgive you one day, just as I refuse to believe they may forgive me. Instead, allow me to wish you luck in building a future here._

_I have a feeling that you will outlive us all, and if you did, well, that would be the greatest irony. Why, you ask? Perhaps one day, should we ever chance to meet again, I shall tell you._

_With the best of wishes, Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor_

  
Artanis shivered as she felt a sharp stab of pain – as well as a swift uprising of hope that one day, the two of them would meet again. From the beginning, Fingolfin had never tried to be a father to her as his brothers had. He was simply there, a man of few words whose presence was all the more remarkable in its intensity. He was the man who had known her best, had known her even better than the people who loved her; he was the man who had expected her to be neither better nor worse, nor anything other than herself. She had been at ease with him, been engaged by him. She had been adult with him.

He must be laughing now, for he had given Morgoth a limp.

 

 

 

_Year 457 of the First Age – Nargothrond_  
“He was frightening, Artanis.” Orodreth sat shivering in front of the Fire in the Great Hall. “When I set my eyes upon him – I have never seen anything so hideous, even among the foulest of Orcs.”

Only a few hours ago, Orodreth had arrived with the remainder of his warriors with the news that Sauron had successfully laid siege to the watchtower at Tol Sirion. Although Finrod was grieved that his fair isle was lost, he was also happy that his brother had survived. “Sauron worries me more than Morgoth,” she admitted. “There is something about him, something even darker and more twisted than his lord.”

“I heard that he was once a servant of Aulë.” Orodreth wrapped the blanket more tightly around himself. “Now he is Morgoth’s servant.”

She shook her head, the fine golden strands catching the firelight. “I think that Sauron serves himself.” She patted her brother’s shoulder. “You should seek some rest, brother. Your wounds, though slight, still need to heal.”

He rose and kissed her cheek affectionately. “I will do as you bid.”

“Sleep well,” she whispered to his retreating figure. Once he was out of sight, she sat down on the bench again.

“I fear that sleep will never come to your darling brother again, cousin.”

The sneering voice could have only two possible owners in Nargorthrond. As this voice was deeper: “Why do you think so, Celegorm?”

“Those who look upon Sauron’s face are never able to escape it again, even in their dreams.” He took a seat beside her, his face for once relaxed in contemplation. “Or so I have heard.” He stretched with a strange cat-like grace that so reminded her of Maedhros. “Orodreth was quite lucky in not being caught. I had never credited your brother for such slipperiness, but he has exceeded my expectations.”

“If he had been caught, he would have died.” Artanis repressed a shudder at the thought of her brother dying. It was one thing to fall in battle but quite another to die at the hands of Sauron…

“I doubt Sauron would have killed him.” He leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “You have heard the stories of our kindred who were captured by the Dark Lord and then set free – except that their wills were chained to his. Would you have wanted that for him?”

No, she would not. She would prefer her brother dead than to have him live as Morgoth’s servant. “But you accepted Maedhros back easily enough. Are you saying that you do not trust him?”

If Celegorm was unnerved by her question, he did not show it. “Maedhros is my brother, and fraternal solidarity prevents me from ever going against him – no matter whom he serves.”

“That was not what I asked.”

“You asked me if I trusted him, and I do.”

She examined her cousin’s face for deceit but found none. “You speak in riddles, Celegorm.”

He chuckled. “Or perhaps you are not capable of understanding me.”

“Then I beg for your indulgence.”

“Maedhros came back from captivity, and though his spirit remained unconquered, Morgoth’s shadow lingers in him still. So perhaps Maedhros is an unwitting tool of Morgoth – just as our father was. Regardless, Maedhros is still the head of my House, and as long as he remains true the Oath, I do not care whom he serves.”

Artanis glanced at him in surprise. “So it would be better to say that the Oath is your master?”

Celegorm nodded. “Indeed. As it has been from the beginning.”

“Do you really mean that?” she asked, regret tingeing her voice.

He blinked; not shutting away tears, of course, since a son of Fëanor does not cry, but perhaps a possibility – a memory – of tears. “I think so.” Celegorm averted his eyes for a few moments, and when he looked up, they were scornful again. “I have heard an interesting tale in the kitchens this morn.”

She raised her brow in interest. “It must have been quite a tale if it had you lurking in the kitchens.”

Ignoring her jest, he smiled in malicious amusement. “Your Sindarin cousins have seen fit to provide me with entertainment.”

“Celeborn?”

“His sister-in-law, in fact. She apparently had quarreled with her husband, and leaving behind her own daughter, she managed to escape the Girdle of Melian. She was found by one of Finrod’s scouts, who later handed her over to a rather distraught Celeborn. In gratitude, he gave the scout his stallion – you know the one everyone is always envious of.”

“Nien,” she supplied.

He nodded. “The very one. A magnificent creature, worth more than that stupid woman’s life. I will see if I can get the scout to part with him. After all, what does he need such a magnificent animal for?”

Ever the hunter, he went on, describing the smooth lines of the stallion. Artanis nodded mindlessly, her mind still on Celegorm’s tale. Galadhon had been right in his predictions. _The lack of understanding between Galathil and Linneth is finally paying its toll on their marriage. Naturally, Celeborn would be the one to intercede._ And for the first time, she allowed her heart to accept the strange bitterness growing within her.

Year 463 of the First Age – Menegroth  
Melian watched indulgently as Luthien sang, as always accompanied by Daeron. Seated next to her, Celeborn watched with a small smile as well, for regardless of his mood, Luthien and Daeron’s music always had a way of moving him. “Luthien is akin to a bird, so free-spirited is she.” commented the queen idly. “Sometimes I fear that the confinement of Doriath will cause her to feel stifled.”

“Foresight, my queen?” asked Celeborn curiously.

She laughed, an airy sound that always cheered him. “No, simply a mother’s perception of her daughter.”

“Daeron loves her,” he stated softly.

“I know.” Melian’s eyes fell upon the minstrel. “And Luthien loves him – just as she loves Galathil, just as she loves you.” She sighed. “Daeron’s love is much like Doriath itself – Luthien would feel trapped in its boundaries. And even if that were not the case, Thingol would not allow a minstrel to marry his daughter. I fear that in matters concerning Luthien, I have less say.”

Celeborn nodded, too wise in the way of politics to comment.

Melian clasped her hands in her lap. “It is the right of any mother to wish for the well-being of her daughter.” She looked grave. “We have seen what unhappy marriages can do,” she said, referring to Galathil and Linneth.

“They were not unhappy in the beginning. And they love each other still,” defended Celeborn.

“Of course,” she agreed noncommittally. “But if not for their daughter, they would feel no responsibility for each other. Sometimes, Celeborn, love is not enough.” Her green eyes flickered towards Daeron.

He covered his face with his hands. “I love Linneth,” he admitted. “Perhaps not enough to be a better husband than Galathil, but I do love her.”

“Do you,” and she said no more, her voice blending with the sounds of the birds, the wind, and the melodies being sung by her daughter. Celeborn turned to her sharply, astonished, and she smiled in amusement. “Well, what did you wish me to say? You can hardly expect me to comfort you in this, and you surely do not need to be told that you are a fool.”

Celeborn laughed bitterly. “No, I know that for myself.”

“Well, am I to encourage you to end this silly infatuation?

“I do not know if I can.”

She shrugged. “I imagine that you will be obliged to, eventually.” She accepted a glass of water from her handmaiden. “Are you feeling guilty for loving the wife of your brother – and perhaps for secretly being joyous that their marriage is failing? Do you wish for me to assuage your conscience?”

He shook his head. “No, on that account I manage well enough myself, I suppose.”

For the first time, impatience entered her ageless eyes. “Let me ask you something. What are you hoping for, Celeborn? They are bonded, and nothing can break that bond – regardless of how they – and you – currently feel.”

“I want nothing,” he answered. “I cannot help loving her.”

“Then how gratifying must it be for Linneth to have both your love and your brother’s. Poor Linneth, to be forced to continue married life – and continue it she does, for had she stopped sharing her bed with Galathil, her maids would have been quick to spread the word.” And as Celeborn gasped at the blow, she went on smiling as she used to do when he had been much younger, ruthless in the administration of what she perceived to be a cure. “It must have occurred to you many a time, but have hope, for there is always the possibility that Galathil will go into battle and never return. And though Linneth could never be your wife, she would be free to become your mistress.”

Celeborn cried out at the cruelty of Melian’s words. “It is not like that! I would never wish Galathil dead, just as I have never wished my father dead.”

The ruthlessness gone from the queen’s eyes, for she perceived that her words had struck home, she wrapped a gentle arm around her grandnephew. “Celeborn I do not mean to hurt you. But sometimes I feel that you insist on maintaining this love for Linneth because you fear a greater emotion.” She patted his knee. “This is really about Galadriel, is it not?”

“It could be about Galadriel,” he admitted honestly. “But I try not to make it so.” He closed his eyes. “I hate the shadow that lies upon her and all her kin. Every time I see her, she grows darker and darker, as if Morgoth and this war are her only realities.”

“It is the curse of the Noldor.” She examined Celeborn closely. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he said, fully aware that the queen would ask anyway.

“When you found Linneth, you gave the scout who found her your most beloved possession – Nien, the only surviving horse left from the line your mother so lovingly bred. That was quite a sacrifice, for I know how much Nien meant to you. So I ask you – would you have given Nien up for Galadriel?”

He stared at the queen for a long time before answering. “I cannot believe,” he said steadily, “that she ever would have placed me in the position of having to do so.”

Satisfied, the queen directed her attention back to her daughter’s singing.

Year 465 of the First Age – Nargothrond  
“He has been gone for over a month, sister.” Orodreth and Artanis sat in Finrod’s study – the very same place, where, ten years ago, Finrod had explained to her his oath to Barahir.

“I do not think he means to return.” Artanis despondently looked into the fire. “I saw it in his eyes. But part of me hopes that he will.”

“That hope is the greater part of me,” said Orodreth. Every night, he and his sister would retire to Finrod’s study, and they would sit together in quiet reflection as they waited to hear news of their beloved brother. “Do you know,” asked Orodreth, “that I would be able to handle your death, just as I handled Angrod’s and Aegnor’s, but I would have the hardest time accepting Finrod’s?”

She threaded her fingers through his, silently offering comfort. “I know what you mean.”

“He is dear to me – perhaps even dearer to me than my own daughter.” He slanted a mocking glance to Artanis. “How strange and shameful.”

Artanis smiled, her gaze free of any recrimination. “Not shameful. Finrod is the tie that holds our House together – from our days in Valinor. The truth is, we need Finrod more than he needs us.”

“I doubt you need anyone, Artanis.”

She tapped her chin. “People keep telling me that, and I find that the more I hear it, the more I believe it, and so the more it comes true. A self-fulfilling prophecy.” She placed her chin in her hand. “Better though, than needing people all the time.”

“Yes, better,” he agreed.

They both jumped at the loud knock on the door. “Enter,” called out Orodreth.

A dirty messenger stumbled through, his eyes wild and anguished. “My lord!”

Artanis closed her eyes as horror filled her. This scene was a repeat of another that occurred much earlier – as was the pattern in her life.

Orodreth was wrong – she did need Finrod. Except this time he was not here.

_And would never be again._   


Author Notes:

\- (1) I’m using the word “man” here to refer to the male gender, not to the species. Using “male” every time was starting to annoy me.

\- (2) In the _Silmarillion_ (paperback, second edition, Del Ray 1999), there a few documented cases of Elvish burial. Fingolfin (181), Finrod (207), and Glorfindel (292). Of the Fëanorians, Tolkien says nothing, but I’ve taken the artistic license in thinking that they would choose to honor Fëanor in this respect.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a long time in updating, and for that Im very sorry. Its just that real life has never been as hard as it is now, and because this story is reaching its ending (Im determined to keep this to sixteen chapters), its taken even longer to write. But hopefully the next chapter will be out soon. Thanks very much to Inara for being my beta.

Author Note: This has been a long time in updating, and for that I’m very sorry. It’s just that real life has never been as hard as it is now, and because this story is reaching its ending (I’m determined to keep this to sixteen chapters), it’s taken even longer to write. But hopefully the next chapter will be out soon. Thanks very much to Inara for being my beta.

 

_Year 467 of the First Age – Doriath_  
  
“– berries?” Artanis blinked at the interruption of her thoughts.

“Of course,” she said, accepting the platter from Melian. After Finrod’s death, Artanis had returned to Doriath, where the king and queen welcomed her back with an intensity that Artanis knew was also tempered with despair. Orodreth had asked his sister to remain, but Artanis had known that her presence in Nargothrond would have been awkward. Orodreth’s policies were different from Finrod’s, and unlike Finrod, he would not welcome her intrusion in his affairs. Another complication was Orodreth’s wife, now Lady of the House of Finarfin, a role that had belonged to Artanis when Finrod was king. But without those duties to sustain her, Artanis knew that she could not live in a place that held so many memories of her beloved Finrod.

Forcing her attention back to the queen, she asked politely, “How is the king this morn?”

“Vexed. His scouts have search far and wide, and still there has been no sign of our daughter…or the mortal man.”

“Beren,” supplied Artanis, knowing full well that the queen had known that fact.

Melian nodded. “He even sent a message to Himring.”

Artanis averted her eyes. She, along with the rest of Thingol’s court, had heard of Luthien’s brief stay at Nargothrond and her subsequent escape, which had been followed by the banishment of Celegorm and Curufin from her brother’s realm. And although Artanis had no part in those events, the judgmental gazes of the Sindar followed her wherever she went. “The king must be very concerned, my Queen, for him to ask for the aid of my cousins.” _Although his plea for help was probably couched in vague insults._

“Luthien is dear to him.” Melian, perhaps sensing the awkwardness of the topic, shifted gears. “I have been meaning to express my admiration at your needlework, Galadriel. The gown you beaded for Nimloth was very beautiful.”

Artanis reflexively clenched her hands. “It was very time-consuming, and as I am slow with pin and thread, it took even longer than it should have.”

“Nevertheless, it was most appreciated. The language of the Noldor may be outlawed, but Noldorin fashion and style – that is something that Thingol can never keep out.” Melian chuckled. “Strange, is it not? How the Sindar so easily despise the Noldor and yet willingly don their designs?”

“Indeed.” It was her turn to change the subject. “Celeborn is not yet returned from his latest foray. Something must have delayed him.” Careful to hide the extent of her concern for him, Artanis looked away from the Queen’s knowing gaze.

“The whispers in the villages keep him abroad. He is reluctant to dismiss any information as worthless, and thus he investigates everything.” Melian’s tone was suspiciously nonchalant. “And he is lonely in Doriath. Galathil’s entire existence revolves around the fortifications of the kingdom, Linneth is caught up in harrowing stages of Nimloth’s majority, and Thingol and I are too worried for our daughter to devote much time to our foster son.”

Artanis digested this information silently. “Indeed,” she finally said. “I shall be glad for his return, for I have no one here that I may call close family. It is fitting then, that two such orphans should seek companionship together.”

Melian smiled slightly and went back to her threading.

A few days later, Doriath grew joyful at the return of the princess – and suspicious of her mortal escort. The king himself had frowned upon seeing him, but with Luthien protecting him, no harm could befall Beren. They described their Quest in detail, and when Beren came to the part of Finrod’s death, he saluted Artanis with his remaining hand.

Artanis had returned the gesture, but she found it difficult to grasp the fact that Finrod had sacrificed himself for this insignificant mortal creature, and here the creature stood, healthy except for his missing hand.

She slept that night, her dreams filled with images of her brother as he was torn from limb to limb. Too terrified to wake but even more terrified to continue, Artanis got up, her nightdress drenched in sweat. And an hour later, she was dressed for a walk outside.

When the nightmares became unbearable, which was more often than not these days, she would try to find oblivion and forgetfulness by staying awake for days at a time, then finally falling asleep from exhaustion. And although the remedy had lost its effectiveness a while ago, she still kept trying, for what else could she do? She was careful to keep her remedy to herself, although Artanis suspected that Melian knew. But she needed the oblivion that could not be gained any other way within the safe borders of Doriath.

Because for her, the despair had never come from a lack of foresight, from not knowing what the future held. It was the things she already knew, the things she had learned and done in the long years of her life, the unspeakable things she had willed into action, whether passively or aggressively. It was the things she had kept secret, secrets that had a way of boring a hole straight through the heart. It was the events she remembered, of her first slaying of an Elf, of the several killings afterwards, and even further back to her childhood, of her father telling her that violence was never an answer to anything except hate, indeed, the nightmares that caused her to jolt awake in the middle of the night, sweating and too panicked to remember that she was safe in her bed. Sleep was supposed to peaceful and free of the horrifying memories that made up her life, but hers remained there, hiding in the darkness of her brain, and when she could not take it anymore, she would run in the only way she knew how. Many days she would go without sleeping, relying on sheer willpower to function within the bounds of normality. And when she could not take it anymore, she would seek rest by becoming near unconscious because then, her body would be too tired to torment her with dreams.

Yet nothing could cheat life, and soon the memories would find her again, standing beside her in the bright daylight.

Perhaps a walk in the cold, crisp air would refresh her, however slightly.

But even as she sought to escape from her dreams, the man who had placed them there was in the gardens as well, his mortal body forlornly sitting on a stone bench. She could leave – he had not seen her. Instead, she walked with a heavier step so that he could hear her approach. “Lady Galadriel,” he said respectfully as he rose in greeting.

“Greetings, Beren.” He gestured to the seat next to him, which she took. “I would think that after such an arduous quest, you would be sleeping.”

“I want to sleep.” His voice, which had been so strong in Thingol’s hall today, was sad. “But sleep is the once place I cannot chase away memories.”

Artanis smiled ever so slightly. “We have something in common then, you and I.”

He stilled suddenly, becoming quite like the statues standing near the fountain. Distantly she considered how very _Elf-life_ Beren seemed at the moment. “That is not all we have in common, my lady.” The heaviness of his tone, even heavier than before, alerted her to the upcoming subject. His eyes turned to her, waiting for her to mumble an excuse or to change the topic, thereby giving her the opportunity to escape, if temporarily, from such a painful subject.

_I am no coward_. “And what would that be?” she asked, the steadiness of her voice surely a credit to her race.

Beren reached into his pocket. “Lord Finrod’s ring.” He held out the golden ring in his hand, the green stone gleaming even in the moonlight. “It belongs to you, my lady. The debt has been repaid a thousand times over.”

Artanis stared at it, the ring beckoning to her in the soft moonlight. “By the Valar, how much I want it,” she whispered, too soft for even Beren’s hearing. The ring was all that was left of Finrod to her, all that was left of her father. She reached out to take it…

“No,” she murmured. Her hands gently cupped Beren’s, and she urged his fingers to close around the ring.

He nodded, thankful for the reassuring weight of the ring once again. He had been prepared to give it up, had steeled himself from becoming dependent on it, but now he could give in to his relief. “The ring – allows me to believe.”

“I know,” whispered Artanis gently. “These are uncertain times, and many will doubt you. But remember that Finrod died because he believed in you. Keep it with you to remind yourself of that. Keep it to remind your people of him, should the day ever come when my kind vanishes from this world.” She looked away. “I still have my memories.”

_Year 470 of the First Age – Himring_

The morning was not even over, yet Maglor’s second horse also went lame. He could feel the hitch of the mare’s stride, which consecutively grew worse every minute. “This horse is finished.” He slowly dismounted from the tired animal and examined the sweating, sagging lines of the once fresh mare.

Maedhros, whose own horse was hardly better, cursed as he too sprang from his saddle to land nimbly at his brother’s side. He wiped face, his copper hair curling with sweat. He and Maglor were on their way back from one of the eastern villages of Ulfang, where they had gone to oversee their preparations for war. Unfortunately, on the way there, a poisoned Orc arrow had hit Maglor’s horse, and Maedhros’s had injured its leg. Ulfang’s people had been glad to give them some of their own horses, but the horses of mortals were no matches for their Elven counterparts.

“I hate this part of the country.” Maglor pulled out a small towel from his pack and wiped his own face. Northeast of Himring, near the northern ranges of the Ered Luin, the devastated lands of Lothlann had been bleached with the fires of the Dagor Bragollach, and now, under the intense heat of the sun, the ground was caked and dry, no moisture gracing the once lovely lands. “We should not have sent our guard ahead.”

Maedhros grunted as he removed the saddle from the horse. “What use is the guard here? Their horses would have been in the same shape.” He narrowed his eyes at the distant hilltop. “If we ride the rest of the day, we should reach Himring by tonight.”

Maglor sighed patiently. “Yes, but we do not have horses, brother. Although in your usual all-knowing way you probably have not noticed.”

“Be quiet and unsaddle your horse,” snapped Maedhros with uncustomary harshness. “I believe there is a wandering tribe beyond the next ridge. Perhaps we can get fresh horses from them.”

“They could be Orcs.”

“They could be mortals. Or better yet, Elves.” His posture and tone brooking no argument, Maedhros secured his travel pouch and then hoisted the saddle on his shoulder. “Be alert. Although Orcs do not travel during the day, we can never be too sure.”

Maglor nodded silently and followed suit. Ever since Maedhros had formed his alliance, his temper had been unusually frayed. The mortals wished to go to war right away and often chafed at being told to be patient. It was not necessarily their fault, for they had not waited almost five hundred years for this day as Maedhros and his brothers had. They could not understand how every detail needed to be planned, every movement coordinated. Most importantly, they did not understand the full consequences of _losing_.

Matters were complicated further because both Thingol and Orodreth refused to participate, both rulers content in the safeties of their underground kingdoms. The Dwarves compensated partially, but Maedhros’s strength was not what it should have been.

Then there was the unspoken matter that Maglor knew burned his elder brother’s heart nevertheless. That a mere slip of a girl and a weak mortal had taken what Maedhros had not been able to, even with the mighty strength of the Eldar behind him. Celegorm, Curufin, and on occasion, Caranthir, would remind him of their duty to reclaim the Silmaril, and as much as Maedhros wished too, he could not ignore the Oath.

So his attention was split in several different directions, and as he was wont, he devoted as much care as he could – thereby forgetting to care for himself. Having never fully recovered from his ordeal on Thangorodrim, he was far too gaunt and pale for Maglor’s peace of mind. And lately all he seemed to be eating were the dried rations of the soldiers because he was too busy to eat a hot meal.

And he was certainly too busy to sleep.

Maglor had tried to take care of him, but Maedhros was too stubborn and he himself was too tired. Where they would get the energy for another battle Maglor did not know nor care to ponder anymore. Better to fight half dead than not at all.

His ears picked up the sound of hooves in the distance. “Into the bushes,” hissed Maedhros. Maglor tiredly hid his gear then followed suit, the thorns scraping his skin. If they were Orcs, he and his brother would be scented out, but since it was barely midday, it was most likely a company of men, who had neither the eyes nor the noses to find them.

But it was neither man nor fell beast that galloped down the beaten path. A tall dark-haired Elf rode at the head of the small party, his keen eyes continuously roving the area around.

Maedhros emitted a sharp whistle in order to alert the party that one of their own, not an enemy, was in the vicinity. If either of them had jumped up or shouted, an arrow most likely would have been delivered instead. The riders stopped, their weapons still raised but no longer ready to shoot. “How did you find us?” demanded Maedhros as he left his hiding spot.

Celegorm smiled dangerously. “Your guard came across my hunting party and informed me that you were returning on mortal horses.” His gray eyes were laughing. “It was easy to guess why you were so late in returning.” He dismounted and offered his brother his own horse. After helping Maedhros mount, Celegorm turned to Maglor. “We can share the extra mount, if that is agreeable with you?”

Maglor nodded tiredly. It was certainly a blessing that he was lighter than his other brothers, or else sharing one mount would have been difficult. “Why did Maedhros dismiss his guard?” hissed Celegorm once they were under way. _That is why he was so eager to share a mount with me – so he could ask me the questions he dare not ask Maedhros._

“I know not – he did not share the wisdom of his decision with me.” He leaned his head against his brother’s back, grateful for the rest.

“He must be careful! To be so careless with his life when it matters the most!”

Somehow Maglor summoned the energy to rebuke his younger brother. “When has his life mattered less?”

Celegorm grew contrite immediately. “I apologize, for my words were spoken in haste. But I have noticed that he has been taking more chances of late. His own soldiers speak of the doom in his eyes.”

“In all our eyes, brother,” corrected Maglor sleepily. “For are we not the source of our own doom?”

_Year 470 of the First Age – The Borders of Doriath_  
  
Artanis felt the thrill of anticipation well within her as the mighty towers of Hithlum came into view. “Finally will we fulfill our oaths today.”

“Your oaths.” The admonishment came from a steel-faced Celeborn, his silver hair falling in a thick braid down his back. Artanis had insisted that she go to her own people at Hithlum, and though Thingol had argued with her, he could not refuse her the right of departure – especially since two of his own warriors, Mablung and Beleg, were also joining the fray. _I will not be denied the right to be there when my people destroy Morgoth – or are destroyed by him. I stand as one of the Noldor, as I always have._ So had her proud words rang through the caves of Menegroth, and Thingol, who at last saw her will in his, gave her his leave to depart. Celeborn was assigned to escort them from the Hidden Realm, and throughout the journey, he had remained silent – till now.

“Oaths have undone you before and will do so again.”

“You doubt the strength of our army?” Her voice was cool, indeed, it had been thus for the past several days in response to her cousin’s silent anger.

Celeborn looked straight ahead. “Lady, I doubt not the strength of your armies, but neither do I doubt the treachery of Morgoth.”

“Treacherous he has always been, and treacherous he will always be. We cannot wait for him to be anything else.”

“You have not the strength that you should. Morgoth’s foul creatures will outnumber you by the thousands.”

Anger flared in Artanis, and for the first time in many years, she nurtured it. “Your king is partially responsible for that,” she shot back.

Celeborn looked at her for the first time. “The Noldor came here and assumed they knew best. They sought to bend us to their will, to their goals and desires. We have faced the threat of Morgoth longer than you ever have, so forgive us if we do not come running to you at the first call. Perhaps things would have been different if your people had arrived with noble intentions, but so far everything you have done – or not done – was in self-interest.”

“That is not true.” She turned her face to him, willing him to look at her. “That is not true for all of us.”

He did not look at her, but she could see the muscles in his jaw relax slightly. “Then I have misspoken.” He paused, and then, “Many of your warriors are not true fighters. They are craft smiths and farmers.”

She nodded in sorrow. “Maedhros and Fingon called for help, and all able Elves answered. They may not be in good order now, but after some training…” she trailed off as she looked towards the horizon, looking for the spires of Hithlum. “I want my cousins to hit Morgoth, to hit him hard. I want them to hurt him right away, no matter what the cost.”

“And if you fail, your kind will be obliterated from these lands. Then there will be no hope left for any of us.” Celeborn watched her now, unwillingly liking the fire that burned so hotly in Galadriel. She sat canted forward in the saddle, her back taut, and her hands clenched tightly in the mane of her horse. In the otherworldly beauty of her face, her eyes shone, brilliantly alive, her attention focused on her enemy.

“We have Eru on our side. That is enough.”

They rode until midday when the approaching trumpets alerted them to the presence of one of Fingon’s warrior parties. “Here must we say farewell.” Celeborn halted his horse and gestured for his men to do the same.

Artanis had expected to be relieved to hear the approaching horses, to be glad that she could go to her cousins and help them prepare for the battle. But she had not expected the reluctance that welled within her at the prospect of this parting. _I have parted from him before. This should not be any different._ Yet it was. Perhaps it was the fact that neither of them might survive the upcoming years, or perhaps it was that they would survive and come back to each other as changed people. In either case, Artanis was at a loss.

“Celeborn.” Her voice had lost its usual haughtiness.

He gazed at her for a long while before turning to his men. “The lady and I would like a few moments.” His soldiers obeyed as they moved into the trees, near enough in case of danger, but still distant enough for some privacy. “Galadriel, must you go?” He brought his horse alongside hers. “You can stay in Doriath with your other family.”

“Or you could come with me and stay with your other family.” Artanis played with the hem of her tunic.

“I cannot,” came as predicted.

She looked up at him. “Then you cannot expect me to do so either.” Her tone softened. “You understand, do you not?”

The horses were coming closer. “I do not want to.” Celeborn’s eyes did not waver from hers. They were very close now. “Galadriel…” His eyes were saying something that Artanis could not, would not understand. So she did the only thing she knew how to do.

“Goodbye, Celeborn.”

With an oath, Celeborn hauled her across her saddle and into a haphazard position on his lap. Viciously he kissed her, his anger and fear fueling his reaction. There was no tenderness in the kiss, or even affection. It was a kiss of possession and of too many missed opportunities. Vaguely, Artanis realized that she was trapped between his body and the horse, two unyielding surfaces. All of her fatigue, fears, and anger melted away into a fireball of sensation, of frustration, need, temper, and lust.

And when he released her, he spoke not a word, no promises or wishes uttered between them. They knew all too well the possibility of a bleak future, of the lack of hope. Just, “Goodbye, Galadriel.”

Her heart clenched in her breast, but she knew that Celeborn would despise her if she showed her fear. She knew that nothing angered him more. Silently praying for him, she held tight to her courage and watched as he rode away.

_Year 471 of the First Age – Anfauglith_

There was so much blood, of men, Elves, Orcs, and other creatures. In death they lay in peace, oblivious to the battle being waged around them and on top of them. It was an eerily familiar tableau – a sight that had followed her from Alqualondë. Except then it had been Elf against Elf, cousin against cousin. But was this battle any better? If the Avari were to be believed, these Orcs had once been their kin. Too tired for such philosophical wonderings, she carefully sifted through the bodies, hunting for survivors.

As a rule, Elda women did not participate in battle. But the need had been so great that even women were encouraged to take up arms. And Artanis, who had been a talented athlete in her earlier years, as well as a princess of the Noldor, refused to be denied her right to vengeance. She had forced Fingon in allowing her to participate. After a week of saying no, he gave in, for he had been too preoccupied by other things. Besides, he had always known that Artanis was able to take care of herself. Thus she now found herself in this desperate mess, her sword attached to her hand by gore, her blood-soaked braid dripping a trail behind her.

She had no idea where her comrades her, but in the distance, she could make out Turgon’s banner.

When she had first caught sight of Turgon’s host, her heart had jumped. But she had not been able to see Glorfindel, and as the battle refused to stop for her sake, she had kept on fighting, edging towards the main host.

But before she could get there, balrogs had surrounded her cousin Fingon and had beaten him to death. A distant part of her mind decided that Morgoth liked using balrogs to eliminate High Kings of the Noldor. At the moment of Fingon’s death, she had not the time to reflect upon anything else. Survival had been her only thought and motive. However, the battle was now over, and sooner or later she would have to make her way over to where Turgon’s temporary headquarters were. By nightfall they would have to leave before Morgoth sent more of his Orcs to finish them.

“Water.” Artanis almost missed the hoarse plea. She turned to see a man wearing the spoiled livery of Huor’s people looking at her with eyes glazed in pain. He was buried underneath two other bodies, one of Turgon’s people and another man. Briefly she considered leaving him – it was his kind that had caused so many problems. It was his kind that had betrayed Maedhros and had caused the Fëanorian host to weaken even before it reached the main battle. But then she thought of her dead brothers, Finrod and Angrod and Aegnor, all three who had died without someone to hold them as they passed from this world.

With a sigh, she trudged back, her boots sinking into a rather deep puddle of blood, the smell and feel of it making her want to wretch. “Brace yourself,” she said soothingly. “I must lift these bodies ere I can get to you.” The man grunted, but whether that was in agreement or in pain she did not know.

Artanis was no warrior, but she had disciplined her body to obey her. She called upon it now to pull the dead Elf, and with great pain to her battered arms, she moved him aside. Although the Elf was not as heavy as a human, his armor added to his mass, some strange metal that Turgon preferred. Next, the human was pulled off, this time more gently, for the injured man lay beneath him. When the man was free, Artanis looked over him critically. He was pinned to the ground by a wicked looking blade, his feet in someone else’s internal organs. Wrinkling her nose, she crouched and lifted the man’s head. “Here, drink this.” She placed her water skin to his mouth. There was not much left inside, but this man had lost so much blood he was very dehydrated.

He obediently drank, but he was in so much pain he could barely swallow. “Did we win?” he asked when he could drink no more.

_Ought I tell him the truth? But he will die soon. No medicine that we know can save him._ “Yes,” she lied.

“I will not live, will I?”

This she could not lie about. “No. Your wounds are too extensive, and you have lost too much blood.”

He closed his eyes. “At least I am dying in the arms of one so fair,” he rasped. “An honor.” He steadily grew weaker with each passing second.

“You have died in the service of something greater than the both of us,” she corrected. “That is the greatest honor anyone can ask for.”

She held him until his breathing stopped, and though her arms were aching, she gingerly placed him back on the ground. Already warriors were collecting bodies for cremation. There was not enough time to bury them all, nor could they be carried back for a proper funeral. Better they burned the bodies than have the Orcs defile them. Rising carefully, she once again began making her way to where Turgon’s banner blew in the breeze. She had not seen Turgon since long before he had left Vinyamar. Glorfindel she had not seen since their parting in Ossiriand, and she prayed that he had survived.

Her arrival in Turgon’s makeshift camp was barely noticed, and though she recognized a few faces – Penlod and Ecthelion were the most familiar to her – they were too preoccupied to pay attention to another blood-soaked Elf. She finally caught sight of Turgon on the far side of the camp, his tall form covered in dirty armor. Besides him was another much-beloved figure. _Glorfindel._

Approaching them, she was stopped by a pair of guards. “The king is not to be disturbed,” said the stern-faced one the left.

“I understand, but I am his cousin Artanis, and I beg his audience.” The guards looked at each other, then looked back at her disbelievingly. Artanis was reputed to be very beautiful, but the creature in front of them may have been an Orc under the grime. The one on the right nodded and beckoned her to follow.

Her welcome was not what she had hoped. Upon seeing her, Glorfindel spilled an entire pot of ink over the maps he was bent over. Turgon dropped his mug of tea, and one of the women attending them fainted.

“Are you sure you are not an Orc?” asked the guard, a faint undertone of humor audible in his voice.

Half an hour later, she was a little cleaner but much crankier. Though she and Turgon had resolved their quarrel years ago, their truce had been an uncomfortable one, and she was certain that Turgon had not missed her while in Gondolin. Now he paced in front of her, alternating between cursing her and reluctantly expressing his joy that she was still alive. Glorfindel was still silent, however, his once warm eyes wary. Turgon questioned her on Thingol and Orodreth and the fact that they had not sent any aid. Turgon confessed that he had expected as such from Thingol, but Orodreth was their cousin, and his first duty was to that of his family and people. Finrod would not have cowered in his kingdom, he had declared. Artanis did not bother pointing out that many things would have been different if Finrod were still alive. And although she silently agreed with Turgon, she was relieved when he was summoned away by one of his other captains.

She waited until he left before turning to Glorfindel. “How long until you break camp?” It seemed much safer to speak of practicalities.

“In a few hours. We want to leave before midday is over so we have sufficient distance between our rear and the Orcs that will chase us once night has fallen.” He sighed wearily. “It is a week’s march to Gondolin, and we have so many wounded that it may take us double the time.”

She moved to sit closer to him. “You cannot afford such a journey.”

“No, we cannot,” he said quietly. “The severely wounded warriors have volunteered to stay behind with the men of Dor-Lomin. Turgon refused at first, but we cannot travel with such wounded men and make it back to Gondolin quickly. It was a most difficult decision for him.”

“Has he said anything about Fingon?”

He shook his head, his golden hair for once dull. “No, but I did not expect him to.”

Silence fell, and she was saddened by the impasse that had grown between them, “I am keeping you from your duties,” she said.

“We will speak on the journey back.” He rose to leave.

“I am not returning with you,” said Artanis softly.

He looked down at her in shock. “You would remain here?”

“I cannot go to a hidden kingdom. There are other interests I must protect in Beleriand.”

Glorfindel nodded. “I thought as much. You would not come to Gondolin when your burdens were light – why should you come now?” The hurt was in his voice, but there was also much anger.

“I would have come to Gondolin for you, Glorfindel. I would have married you and had children with you and grown old with you.” Her eyes were anguished. “You know this.”

“You would have come,” he repeated. “Not ‘would come’.” Before she could move away, he swept her lips in a kiss, and just as quickly, he released them, the beloved green eyes sad. “What do you want from me, Artanis? My permission? I can taste another on your lips, as I have foreseen. Do you wish for me to approve that you use me as an excuse?”

Glorfindel moved away from her. “I have loved you since Aman and in the long years after. I fought for you against your father and your brothers, against Fëanor, and against the very darkness that has doomed us all. I gave you my heart and the life that comes with it, and all I ever asked in return is that you be truthful. That has failed me before, and it will most likely fail again. So do not ask for my approval.”

His cold face was driving her to madness. “Would you cut me open to bleed, Glorfindel?”

Love for her was in his eyes, but there was also strength. “I can live without a heart, Artanis. When I knew that your heart could never be mine, I gave you my own and set you free.”

“Glorfindel-,”

He raised a gloved hand to forestall her words. “I do not want to hurt you, Artanis, and I refuse to be hurt by you. We had a pleasant life together. Can you deny that?”

“No.”

“Then we are agreed…I gave you everything I possibly could, you know, as much as it was in my nature to give. Which is more – a rather great deal more, Artanis – than you have ever given to me.” His golden voice was rough with tears, angers, and disappointment, but underneath she heard the steel pride, and she knew that he would not take her back, even if she were to throw away her own pride and go to him now.

There was nothing else to be said. She knew that they would both leave this room with compromises made and would fall back into their old patterns of smiles and easy reconciliation…that is, if either of them survived the war. But perhaps a better question would be if either of them _would_ survive the war.

Silently she followed him outside, where Turgon was shouting for the camp to be disbanded. “You must come with us, of course,” stated Turgon as soon as he saw them.

“I cannot go to Gondolin.”

“Where would you go? My brother is dead, and so are three of yours. Orodreth is hidden away and likely will not emerge unless directly challenged.” His sneering tone indicated exactly what he thought of a cousin not coming to aid the rest of his family in war. “The sons of Fëanor are scattered like tree leaves, and your province in Ossiriand is not yours anymore.”

She looked at him stubbornly. “Artanis, I am your king now, and you will do as I say. Is that clear?” His gray eyes had become very flinty. “I am tired of loosing my family. My father, brother and sister are dead, as well as my cousins. The sons of Fëanor and Orodreth are dead to me, for I cannot forgive them their betrayals. I will not lose you to the same arrogant pride as I have lost the others.” Turgon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have greater problems than a willful cousin. Glorfindel, she used to listen to you once. See if you can knock some sense into that thick skull of hers.”

Artanis softened slightly. “I understand what you say, Turgon. But I owe much to the Moriquendi. It is only right that I stay among them and give them aid and learning. I foresee this is my atonement for all that I have done.”

“You have been atoning for several years now,” he argued.

“I can atone for the next several millennia, and it will still not be enough. Turgon,” she said patiently, “we are all trying to help in our own way. You have built a haven for our people, and Glorfindel protects them. But my skills do not lie in that area.”

The muscles in his jaw twitched, but otherwise Turgon remained silent. She tried another tactic. “Gondolin cannot remain hidden forever. Once Morgoth discovers its location, he will attempt to overrun the city. If our people are driven forth from our last refuge, where will we go? Better I remain and strengthen our ties with the Sindar and Green-elves. We need allies, Turgon. The people here still trust us little.”

Glorfindel nodded his agreement. “She has a point, my lord.”

“You support her in this? You would let her go?” asked Turgon disbelievingly.

Glorfindel did not look at Artanis. “I cannot cage that which my hand cannot tame.”

Turgon gazed at both of them carefully, but after a few moments, he shrugged, deciding that he did not have the time to ask any questions. ““I will grant you your wish, for if my father trusted your judgment, then so shall I. But before you leave, you must swear an oath to me.”

She looked up sharply. Turgon would have been the last person to speak of oaths. “If Gondolin falls, I shall fall with it. If that is the case, I would like you to watch over Idril. I have kept her sheltered in Gondolin, so she will need your guidance.”

That Turgon trusted her with such a thing caused her throat to constrict. “It would be an honor.”

She had left Turgon’s camp with no fanfare, for Turgon himself had been in a hurry to leave. He had found the time to hug her goodbye, and Glorfindel gave her one last kiss before returning to his own men. He had left her life permanently, she knew.

Artanis, Mablung, and Beleg had journeyed back to Doriath in haste because now most of Beleriand was overrun with Morgoth’s troops. Very few places were safe enough to linger for more than a few hours, and as many of the forests had burned down, very little shelter was available. In under a week they had reached the Girdle, where Thingol’s people escorted them back to Menegroth. The king and queen had welcomed her two Sinda companions back warmly, but perhaps knowing Artanis’s mood, they left her alone.

She seldom ventured from her rooms. At times, Linneth and Nimloth would attempt to coax her out, but it was to no avail unless the queen specifically requested her presence. Celeborn was away again, and for that Artanis was grateful. She had not thought about their last encounter because she had been so wrapped by the battle. She did not know how much their relationship would have to change – if it would change at all.

Sleep came with even more difficulty, and when she finally did sleep, her dreams simply rehashed events and people from her past.

One night, when the mournful lamentations of the harpists became too much for her, she dreamt of her uncle.

_Lost in vivid memory, she wandered around the clearing slowly. The air whipped around her, playing the many leaves of the forest around her as an instrument. The cold bit into her body, when she heard her name in the wind._

Nerwen.

_Artanis spun around, and to her shock, she found herself staring at Fëanor’s translucent face. There were a hundred ways she could have greeted this apparition, but she found herself pushing her fingertips through the silver aura that surrounded him with a child-like curiosity. She touched nothing solid, and fleetingly she wondered if all ghosts were like this._

You doubt I am real? _he asked, his wonderful voice mocking her._

_She did not respond immediately. It had been so long since she had heard Fëanor’s voice, that hearing it now uncovered an abundance of aged emotion. And there was much that she wanted to confront him with. “Why have you not come to me before?”_

I have always been with you, _he answered_. But you have never truly wanted me until now.

_Artanis wondered if that was true. Had she been so intent on overshadowing Fëanor’s legacy that she did not see him all this time? In her life, to survive, she had to be perceptive and diligent of all that was around her. Had she lost those abilities in the past few years? She did not think so. If anything, her training with Melian had enhanced those abilities beyond what she thought was possible._

_Fëanor had lied to her about a number of important issues in the last months of his life. Could she trust him again? “I thought that Mandos had taken you.”_

I am with Mandos. But the part of me that resides within you is still here – and will be there as long as you want it.

_Her heart constricted. “My family is dying.” She fell silent as images of her dead family flashed before her eyes. Her brothers, her cousins, her uncles, her friends._

_Fëanor gazed at her reprovingly._

_She took several deep breaths. “I apologize for my weakness.”_

Nerwen, did I not tell you that anger must not be harnessed all the time? Remember?

_She remembered, and her belief in his words had brought her to where she was now. Where would she be if she had not joined Fëanor on that rooftop so many years ago? “What good is anger now?” she asked dully._

Anger does not go away just because you think it will serve no purpose. Nerwen, you have been responsible for yourself even before you reached your majority. Since those years, you have lost much.

_“Yes, but so have many others-”_

_He cut her off brusquely, just like he used to when he had been alive._ Others are not you. You are trying to rationalize. Others may feel their own anger, but it is yours that you feel. It is the injustice against you that hurts your heart. _His eyes softened._ There is no shame in this.

_If she had been blind, she might have believed that Morgoth and Sauron were guilty of the death of her people, and personal vengeance would have consumed her as it had consumed her half-cousins. But the evil that had destroyed her family had no face. It was not Orcs or Vampires but what they represented that she had come to hate. It was a thing that could never be locked away in the Void or even killed. It was bigger than Sauron, bigger even than Morgoth himself, and though she could never destroy it, nevertheless she knew she would have to fight it. It was a realization that would later define her life._

You are not helpless, Nerwen. Just alone. _He reached out and passed his fingers through her hair._ You have walked alone all your life. Truly, do a few more steps matter?

_“I am afraid,” she admitted._

_He looked at her sternly._ Fear is of the future. In the present, there is only action. _His hand dropped the where the Elessar lay on her chest_. Use everything and survive, Nerwen. That is the best revenge of all.

“ _You also told me never to make promises I could not keep.”_

You can, you will. For your family, for me. _He started to fade._ For your father.

_Year 472 of the First Age – Menegroth_  
  
“Do you plan to wither away in this darkness?” The quiet voice was a whisper in her rooms.

Artanis, in an armchair by the fire, did not even bother to rise. “I will not even ask how you entered my chambers so stealthily, Celeborn…or why you entered without my permission. I could have been otherwise occupied.” She was too tired to be reproachful.

Celeborn came closer, his long body illuminated by the fire. “I brought you your evening meal. Melian has told me that you rarely come to the halls to dine anymore.”

She waved the tray to a nearby table. “Thank you for your kindness, Celeborn. But it was not necessary. I have but to ask, and someone would have brought me all the food I desire.”

He took a hold of her wrist, frowning as he felt the thinness of it. “You have lost weight.”

Her eyes finally met his. “It is no matter, Celeborn.” She gestured to a chair. “Please sit down. I have been remiss in my manners. Would you care for any refreshments?”

“No,” he answered as he pulled the table with a tray so it was in between them. “I had hoped to share this meal with you.” He gave her a plate then took one for himself.

“I was not aware you had returned.”

He applied himself to the leafy vegetables for a few moments before answering. “I returned just last night, and I have been in council with the king for most of today.”

She looked him over critically. “Once again, I am glad that you are safe.”

Celeborn met her gaze evenly as he tried to read her emotions. All day, he had wondered what his reception would be. Clearly, there would be none if Artanis had her way. And though he had acted impulsively when he had kissed her over a year ago, he would not allow her to forget it. “Did you find what you needed?” she asked.

“I found who I needed.” He sipped water thoughtfully. “Morgoth convinced one of the captains of the outer garrisons much wealth and land if he would leak our movements to his own army.”

“What will be done with him?”

Celeborn looked at the fire. “It is up to Thingol. Death is never a punishment we apply, but this circumstance is exceptional. This man’s greed has cost us many lives – including my father’s. Thingol’s temper was already hot before, but now…”

“My cousin Turgon cast his own brother-in-law to his death,” added Artanis thoughtfully.

“Why?”

“Because he tried to kill his own son, except he took his wife’s – my cousin’s – life in the process.” Her eyes were mocking. “There is only one punishment for a Kinslayer.”

There it was again – this bitterness that caused her to bleed so much. “What is wrong, Galadriel?”

The name flowed over her like a blanket, its very intimacy igniting another spark of regret within her. She gazed at him earnestly now. “Do you think me beautiful, Celeborn?”

His breath caught at the strange question. Many possible answers flashed in his mind. “I think you are lovely.”

“Lovely – strange that you should say that. Only one other person has called me lovely before.” She rubbed her arms as if warding off a sudden chill. “I miss him.”

“Glorfindel,” he said flatly.

Artanis shook her head. “No. Glorfindel’s language is full of flowers and sunlight. It was Fëanor who called me so.” Once she had said the name, a great weight was lifted off her, and the words fell more freely now. She told Celeborn about her relationship with her mentor who later became her enemy. Although it was difficult, she tried to explain to him what it was she had sought – and found in this friendship. She hesitantly expressed the odd sense of fitting that she had with Fëanor, and that during her visits with the temperamental prince, there were moments when she had felt fully herself. There were no airs, no diplomacy, no self-imposed censoring. Just comfortable moments when she had felt like she was in the presence of someone who would understand…although she had never been sure what it was that Fëanor could understand, but she had felt it hovering around their conversations like a shared shield. “He liked me,” she said finally. “It was nice. He liked very few others.”

Celeborn listened patiently, not liking everything he was hearing but understanding that this was the woman whom he had come to respect and admire so much. And when she told him of the burning of the ships at Losgar, she took the disappoint in his eyes calmly, asking him, “Did I do the right thing?”

He gazed at her gravely before answering. “You did the only thing, Galadriel. Else there would have been more bloodshed.”

But Artanis did not want to be told that she had been backed into a corner and taken the only path out. “That is not what I asked. I want to know if what I did was right.”

“It is not a decision I would have made,” he said finally. “You took away the choice from Fingolfin. Perhaps he would have bargained with his brother, or perhaps he would have fought.”

“Fëanor would not have accepted anything other than Fingolfin’s total annihilation. His people were safer crossing the Helcaraxë.”

“Were they?” Celeborn steepled his hands. “Fëanor’s legacy is not a passing thunder cloud. It is a spider that tries to catch us all in its web. It traps us with fear, mistrust, and anger. You had no choice on Araman. And it was the right choice not to let more of your people die, if that is what you are asking.”

“It is.”

“Then you have your answer.” She looked at the floor, her shoulders weary from the many burdens she carried. His heart ached for her, and yet he knew that she must carry this weight on her own. “Come here, Galadriel.”

She looked up, her eyes a maelstrom of regret and sadness. But she rose anyway and came to stand in front of him. Pulling her down, he tucked her neatly into his lap and waited to see what her reaction would be. She held still for a long moment, but all his doubts were cast aside when Artanis coiled her hands around his neck and lay her head on his shoulder. They remained like this for a while, until “This cannot happen,” she murmured, undoubtedly thinking of Glorfindel, Linneth, and everything else that had defined their relationship for the past few centuries.

Celeborn nodded in agreement before he slid his arm more securely around her waist. “Perhaps this is not meant to be, and we are fools for wasting time like this.” He bent his head and nuzzled the skin behind her ear. “But are you not tired?”

_Tired of the fighting, of hurting, of being fine, of not needing anyone, of being afraid, of pretending. Of life._

Artanis felt the tears well in her eyes as she felt his arms hold her more tightly and his cool lips on the tips of her ears.

This was not worth fighting. It did not hurt, it was not fine. They needed each other, and they were not afraid. They were not pretending. Was this the same life they had been living for so many years?

She whispered his name as his hand brushed over her hair.

This was wrong. But neither of them cared.

He held her until her eyes grew glazed with sleep, and for the first time in hundreds of years, she finally knew peaceful rest.

 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 - The situation in Middle Earth reaches a climax as Doriath is sacked, and Galadriel's intentions are questioned. Celeborn wonders if her love is worth the price he must pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its been so long since Ive updated! I apologize for the delay, but the good news is that there is only one chapter left, and that will be done by the end of December. A New Years present, if you will. Special thanks to Inara for ideas and being a great beta.

**Chapter Fifteen**

 

Author’s Note: It’s been so long since I’ve updated! I apologize for the delay, but the good news is that there is only one chapter left, and that will be done by the end of December. A New Years present, if you will. Special thanks to Inara for ideas and being a great beta.

 

_Year 477 of the First Age – Nargothrond_

Orodreth watched as his sister exchanged warm greetings with his daughter, Finduilas, and slighter cooler ones with his wife, Loriel (1). Though he was no master politician as some of his more illustrious cousins were, he was not unaware as to why his wife and sister were not on good terms. For over four hundred years, Artanis had ruled as the Lady of the House of Finarfin because Finrod would take no wife and had preferred his sister to take on such duties. But with Finrod’s death and Orodreth’s succession as head of house, his own wife had taken Artanis’s position with a great deal of relish.

He supposed that he should not have condoned such feelings from Loriel, but he sympathized with his wife. Though he had loved Finrod, he could not help feeling unjustly compared to him. It was hard to be in the shadow of one so great and fair, and Orodreth had long stopped trying to live up to his brother’s name. So too did Loriel feel, for people would whisper that she was not as great as her illustrious sister-in-law.

Since Finrod’s death, Artanis rarely came to Nargothrond. She preferred instead to dwell in Doriath or to wander with the Green-Elves. He did not approve her wanderings, but he also could not deny how much easier it was now that she lived elsewhere. Thus he kept silent and did not censor her, though as her older brother – her only brother now – it was his right.

When she did visit, it was for a few days only, generally bearing news from Thingol, Turgon, and at times, the sons of Fëanor. Her visit today must be for a similar reason, for he knew that she did not come simply to see him.

She turned to him now, and curtseyed, thus acknowledging his rank and station to be above hers. He would never admit it, but Orodreth was happy to see his proud, unyielding sister, who had once opposed him so vehemently on the shores of Araman, humble herself before him now. “Welcome to my halls, Sister. As always, we are glad to have you here among us.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, my lord and brother.” Orodreth shared a glance with his wife as he wondered why Artanis was here.  
“We will prepare a room for you and provide whatever comforts you desire after such a long journey.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I must decline your kind invitation. Though I have arrived without notice, I was hoping that you could spare me a few moments of your time ‘ere I leave once again.”

Loriel started. “So short a time…”

Artanis smiled tiredly. “I have not much to spare.” She turned back to her brother.

Orodreth was tempted to say that he had no time to spare immediately, that she must wait if she wished for an audience. But the part of him that was not king remembered a laughing girl weaving him a coronet of flowers at their father’s home at Alqualondë. No, he had been king enough today. It was enough that his sister did not seek to interfere with the affairs of Nargothrond, though this place had been her home longer than it had been his. “Then perhaps we could walk outside and lunch under the trees?”

“I would like that very much.”

 

At first, Artanis asked about various friends and acquaintances, and then she updated him on the happenings in Doriath. “Linneth and Nimloth have been dwelling in Tol Galen for the past several years. Dior’s birth was difficult for Luthien, for now that she is no longer counted among the firstborn, much of her strength is diminished.”

“I am surprised our cousin permitted his family out of Doriath,” commented Orodreth. “I certainly would not send Loriel or Finduilas away.”

“Luthien has always been a sister to Galathil and Celeborn. Both would bear all manner of hardships for Luthien’s happiness. Besides, Linneth loves Luthien dearly, and it is with pleasure that she keeps her law sister company.” _Something that your own wife would never do, Artanis added mentally._

Orodreth shrugged. “In any case, why are you here, Artanis? Not that I am displeased, but you rarely come here without reason.”

She picked at her dress, a habit acquired from childhood. “I have heard whispers while abroad. People say that Turin Adanedhel (2) is one of your favored counselors.”

“That he is. He is from a noble family, and he is fair and valorous. You know him from Menegroth, do you not?”

Artanis nodded. “I found him to be very skilled in warfare but lacking in temperance.”

He waved her comment away. “He is a young man. He will learn it in time.”

She decided to go straight to the point. “Orodreth, I have heard that he advised you to build a bridge over the Narog. Is this true?”

“Yes.” He narrowed his eyes. “How did you hear this? I have not made this public knowledge.”

“I hear things. Brother,” she said impatiently, “if you build such a bridge, then Nargothrond’s secrecy will be lost. Morgoth will know you are here.”

“It was Finrod’s idea to keep this location a secret. I believe that we ought to engage the enemy in the open. We are not cowered by Morgoth. Let him send whatever force, and we shall repel it.”

Artanis grasped her brother’s arm. “No doubt it was this mortal who counseled you thusly?”

He glared at her. “Yes, it was, and I agree.”

_You forsake wisdom for the words of a mortal, simply because you cannot bear being in Finrod’s shadow._ But she bit back these words that would have banished her from her brother’s realm. Instead she said, “Then you will not be the only son of Finarfin who will find his death at the hands of a mortal.”

“I am not Finrod,” warned Orodreth.

Artanis only gazed at her brother sadly. “No. You are not.”

 

_Year 488 – Isle of Balar_

Celeborn knew that it was Cirdan’s height that surprised Galadriel. She had known he had a beard and was not shocked to see it, but Celeborn had not informed her of the Shipwright’s imposing height. Though he would never say so, it was amusing to see the implacable Galadriel discomfited. “Lord Cirdan, may I present to you Galadriel Artanis, granddaughter of Lord Olwë?”

She curtseyed. “My lord, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

Cirdan looked at her speculatively. “Your name is known to me,” he said finally, not revealing exactly how he knew her name.

Celeborn sighed inwardly. Every person they met on Balar looked upon Galadriel with indecision. Though many years had passed since news of the Kinslaying had come to Cirdan’s folk, forgiveness came more slowly here, for many of Cirdan’s mariners had closer relations with those in Alqualondë.

Cirdan looked at Celeborn again. “I cannot tell you how welcome these supplies are. Thingol is most generous, for I know how his own resources are stretched thin.”

“I wish we could do more,” said Celeborn sadly. Everywhere he looked, he saw Elves, weary from Morgoth’s repeated assaults. “I cannot express the magnitude of my sorrow for the destruction of the Falas.”

“The Falas is another place on the long list of Morgoth’s destruction. It will not be the last.” They turned toward the haphazardly erected house of Cirdan. “How long will you be staying?”

Celeborn glanced at Galadriel, who met his eyes curiously. “I do not know.”

Cirdan gave the pair and inquiring look, but when no explanation was offered, “My home is open to you as long as you wish, kinsman.”

“Thank you,” smiled Celeborn. Galadriel also murmured her thanks but otherwise remained quiet. “With your permission, I would like to walk among the refugees and speak with them, if I may.”

“You have my leave to do so, but I must warn you that many of them are angry and may be hostile.” Galadriel raised her chin as the Shipwright gave her a pointed glance. “And while you are occupied, perhaps the lady would like to meet her young kinsman?”

Galadriel nodded, her eyes seeming almost eager. Fingon had sent his son to Cirdan for safekeeping, and in retrospect, it was perhaps the wisest move Fingon had made during his kingship.

They parted ways, Cirdan back to his home with Galadriel in tow while Celeborn headed to the main part of the island. For a long while, he walked silently as he noted the state of the refugees, how they lived, and from where they came from.

A few months ago, Thingol had asked him to go to the Isle of Balar, where a large number of Sindarin refugees had fled. Thingol wished to send supplies, and Celeborn wished to ferret out information. Often times, victims were a good source of information concerning the enemy’s whereabouts. Celeborn had asked Galadriel to accompany him, but she had been unsure of her reception with her grandfather’s old friend and had tried to decline. Yet Celeborn was surprisingly insistent and won in the end, for he knew that some time away from Doriath would be good for her. And since they had never been anywhere together except for Menegroth, it would be a refreshing change for the both of them.

Since the last great battle, his relationship with Galadriel had teetered on the brink of something greater. But something held both of them back, and thus they satisfied themselves with the occasional warm glance and fleeting touch. Often he wondered whether it would be wise to push their relationship forward. There was much between them that needed to be spoken of – Linneth, Glorfindel, the Kinslaying – topics that required more time than they had to give. And he knew that she secretly feared to taint him with her past sins, of which he only knew a few.

He was not sure if he were even ready to share such a burden. There was much about her that he still could not understand and even stomach, but the feelings inside him could not be tempered by any logic. He knew he did love her, but the question was how much he loved her, for Linneth still caused his own heart to ache.

But walking among these wearied people reminded him how much he had to lose by committing himself to Galadriel, and how much more he had to gain. The next several years would be filled with hardship and suffering, and after that, an even longer period of rebuilding. Galadriel’s intelligence and strength would be needed in a world that was growing – dare he say it – stagnant. But how could he ask the people who needed her help to trust her? He was no fool. Elves had long memories, and for the rest of her life, she would be branded a Kinslayer if she lived among her Sindarin brethren. She would find more acceptance in the Noldorin court, but Celeborn would never live among them, even at the cost of love.

Furthermore, could he share a home and a life with someone who had once been Fëanor’s most devoted disciple, someone who still secretly held those memories and teachings in her heart?

He realized then that he was no longer competing with Glorfindel for Galadriel’s affection. He was competing with Fëanor.

How preposterous the idea was! Was he following a path that he knew led to nowhere? But all these years he had been waiting to confront this barrier. It was his test, a test that he might fail. But losing this battle would mean losing Galadriel.

He would win.

  
In Cirdan’s study, Artanis watched as the Shipwright walked onto a small balcony that overlooked a training yard. She was surprisingly anxious to see her cousin’s son for the first time since he had been but a babe in swaddling cloths. “Ereinion?” called the Shipwright. “You have a visitor.”

From the gaggle of young men practicing swordplay, one of them looked up from where he had been about to disarm his opponent. He made a face at the Shipwright. “I shall be there in a few moments.”

“He will be relieved that you are not one of the tutors or counselors that he must deal with as heir to the kingship,” commented Cirdan as he sat down near Artanis.

“How does he fare here?” she asked.

“If I were raising a fisherman, I imagine he fares quite well. But having no children of my own does not make me an expert in such matters.” He poured drinks for the both of them.

She hid her smile. “I believe you do yourself an injustice. From what I have heard, you spend much time with the boy, not only providing him with your own wisdom but also that of the scholars you bring to him.”

He tapped his glass. “Still, I wonder why I am his guardian and not you.” The Shipwright continued shrewdly, “As his aunt, you ought to be playing a much larger role in his life. Neither his father nor his uncle ever deigned to answer that question. But I for one would think that the future High King would have some family in his life. And since his mother and aunt are dead, you are the closet mother figure he has.”

Artanis smiled almost bitterly. “Has Ereinion asked why?”

Cirdan nodded. “Yes, and I imagine you shall have to explain it to him, even if you do not tell me. He can be rather demanding at times. And late,” he added as he looked towards to the door.

“But surely reasons have occurred to you.”

“Yes, but from what I know of your cousins, they all esteem you highly and value your wisdom. You were Fingolfin’s most favored vassal. Naturally, I did not share my suspicions with my young ward, but he may have heard others speculating on this very matter.”

She nodded stiffly. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. At least I shall not be taken by surprise at his question.”

From outside the door, a pattering of feet could be heard. “Ahh, there is he now.” Cirdan rose and opened to the door before Ereinion could knock. “Lady Galadriel, may I present to you Ereinion, the late Prince of the Noldor.”

The youth flushed. “You always told me I have to wash before appearing in front of a lady,” he whispered to the Shipwright. He turned and bowed to Galadriel. “Welcome, cousin.”

She rose and inclined her head regally. “I am most pleased to be here.” She stepped back and regarded him more closely. “The resemblance…”

“Everyone says that I look like my father,” supplied Ereinion eagerly.

Artanis smiled sadly. “You do, but I was going to say that you look like your grandfather.”

Surprise flashed through the youth’s eyes and then joy. “I am glad of that. What few memories I have of my grandfather, I hold dear to my heart.”

Cirdan cleared his throat. “I shall leave both of you to become acquainted. Should you need me, I will be back in the shipyards.” He departed, and after a few moments, Ereinion gestured to the couches near the windows.

“I am glad you came, cousin.”

Artanis smiled more warmly. “So I am. I confess that I had wanted to come sooner, but things have been difficult.”

“My father had told me of your labors on behalf of grandfather. Do you still continue?” His bright eyes were curious.

She nodded. “Yes.” She briefly told him of how she was working to gain the trust of the Silvan Elves. “They do not like us, those who carry Valinorean blood. It is difficult,” she said again.

He continued to ask more questions but finally came to the one Artanis had no wish to answer. “I have heard that you were greatly respected by Fingolfin, and that you were considered close to my father.”

“Yes.”

He looked at her steadily. “I love Cirdan, and living here has been good for me. But why did my father make me his ward and not yours?”

Artanis met his gaze evenly. “There are several reasons. Would you like to hear them all?”

“If you can tell me.”

“Very well then. You father and uncle knew that there was a great possibility they would not survive much longer. Turgon’s daughter could not claim the kingship anymore than your cousin Finduilas or I could. You and Celebrimbor are the only male heirs to the house of Finwë.” She looked out the window. “When Maedhros abdicated the kingship to Fingolfin, Fëanor’s line became dispossessed. You know all this, I imagine.” At Ereinion’s nod, she continued. “When Hithlum became too dangerous, Fingon knew he had to protect his beloved child, who was also the future of our line. At first he considered sending you to Gondolin, but a future king cannot be secluded from his people. He must first learn to live among them. The next option was Finrod and Orodreth, but they were dismissed for the same reason as Turgon. Obviously not Thingol, for he would never shelter, let alone raise, the next king of the Noldor. The sons of Fëanor were not even considered. After all this elimination, there were only two people left whom Fingon trusted – the Shipwright and me.”

Ereinion pursed his lips. “So how did he decide between the two of you?”

“He picked the one he trusted more, and that was the Shipwright.”  
“But you are family. As much as I love Cirdan, you are my kinswoman. Surely even my father knew that.”

Artanis gazed at him sadly. There was much more to the matter, of course, but Artanis did not wish for the young prince to know it just yet. How could she tell him that he was denied his aunt because she was a threat to his kingship? She could never be queen as long as there was a male heir, but Fingon feared, and rightly so, that if she had raised his son, he would have been tainted by her ideas – ideas that had once been from the teachings of Fëanor. Had Ereinion grown to love her and think of her as a mother, he might have allowed her to dominate his will and have a larger part in the rule of the Noldor.

Fingon knew of her ambitions and decided that it would be better if Ereinion regarded her as a distant relative, a vassal in fact, that could not manipulate him. Thankfully, the temptation was not given to her and instead placed on Cirdan’s uninterested lap. She did not like to think what would have happened otherwise.

“When you become king, your subjects must trust you. I will forever be known as the Kinslayer princess, and your credibility with the Sindar would have been diminished. It will ease their hearts to know that you have been raised by the Shipwright.”

“But in other circumstances, my father would have raised me. There is more to this that you have not told me.”

Fingolfin’s son was shrewd. “There is also the fact that I have no real home of my own. Wandering the country side like a waif is not proper for the heir either,” she said with a smile. “But do you now see why I could not have provided you with the love and care that I ought to have bestowed upon you?”

He nodded mutely.

She rose. “It has grown late, and I must seek my companion. But we will remain for a while yet, so the two of us can be family for a while longer.”

“I would like that,” he said almost shyly.

Artanis turned to face him from the door. “For what it is worth, there were many days when I wished you would have been in my care, and I could have loved and cared for you like the son that I shall probably never have.”

 

Two weeks later, Celeborn found her near the beach late at night. The evening meal had passed long ago, and most had sought their beds. Yet she remained watchful and alert, almost as if she were a sentry guarding the shore.

Sitting next to her, he pulled her close and stroked the soft skin of her cheek. She had once been as radiant and beautiful as the morning sunshine, but living in shadow had dulled her countenance. How he longed to take her to a place where her heart would be free from worries.

Sighing contentedly at his surprising but welcomed show of affection, Galadriel ran her fingers through his hair and smiled when his eyes darkened. “You seem at peace, my lord.”

“I am, as I have not been in many years.” Her eyes grew curious, and she opened her mouth to ask why, but he laid a finger on her lips. “Just be quiet for a moment.” He grabbed a hold of her wrist, and with his other hand, he withdrew a delicate bracelet engraved with the emblem of his house from his pocket. “I once spoke to you about the bonds of friendship. Do you remember?” At her nod, he continued softly. “But there are many more bonds other than friendship.” He looked at her intently, almost tenderly. “Bonds that we do not understand, that we do not need to understand.”

She only watched him, riveted by his eyes and voice. He continued, his voice a whisper in her ears. “Bonds that are timeless, that are just to be experienced. Bonds that have no boundaries, no limits.” He began fitting the bracelet over her wrist. “Bonds that bind the hearts together. Bonds of passion and of love.” He finished clasping the bracelet on her wrist. Her eyes wide, she opened her mouth to speak once again. But Celeborn, enjoying a speechless Galadriel, pulled her closer and whispered in her ear, “No more hedging.”

His mouth took hers in a deep kiss, one hand massaging her breast and the other burying itself in her hair. He used his grip on her curls to pull her head back until he could look into her eyes.

“No more hedging,” she repeated.

He nodded and then pulled her to her feet. They made the walk to his rooms in record time, and once inside, she was almost pushed against the door as he bit the tip of her ear none too gently. “I will tolerate much from you, Galadriel,” he said, passion and anger adding a harsh tone to his voice. “I will take abuse, pain, and humiliation, and suffer it gladly for your sake.” He kissed her once again. “But what I cannot tolerate under any circumstances, the one thing I will not abide, is any dishonesty from you. Do you understand?”

She gasped, feeling a thrill at the tone of dominance in his voice. “Perfectly.”

“I ask for everything but your honor. That is your own.”

 

_Year 495 of the First Age – Tol Galen_

It was so peaceful here, reflected Nimloth, that one would hardly think there was a war brewing on the mainland. A little ways ahead were the shimmering waters of Lanthir Lamath (3), and all around the trees sang in the breeze. She smiled and lay down in the sweet smelling grass, not caring that her dress would be covered in grass stains.

Her mother had journeyed back to Doriath, for whatever the problems existed between her and Galathil, she loved him too much to stay away from him. But Nimloth had begged to stay, for Menegroth was no longer the place of joy it had been in her childhood. Now war loomed outside its borders, and day-to-day activities now consisted of fortifying Doriath and its neighboring villages.

Luthien had been glad for her company, for becoming mortal had suddenly changed all of Luthien’s perceptions, and though she would never say so to Beren, she found her mortal body cumbersome, and she was alarmed at the change in her fëa. Managing an infant and a weakened husband in her new state was hard for her, and thus Nimloth’s help was most welcomed.

It had been no hardship for her either, for Dior was a beautiful child. She called him Aranel (4), for even as a babe, the beauty of his mother shone through. And when she wished for other companions, she would venture to the mainland, where the Green Elves in Ossiriand were always welcoming. They were friends of Galadriel and often had tidings of her. Her father’s kinswoman was incapable of staying in any one place, and from what Luthien had playfully hinted at, staying with any particular lover.

Her thoughts unwittingly turned to Dior. Her little Aranel had grown into a very beautiful man, his dark hair and gray eyes seeming more vivid than even her own. Lately, he had been watching her with more interest than was proper, but she had attributed it to his own inexperience with other women. But his flirting grew bolder with each passing day, and Nimloth was embarrassed to find that she enjoyed his attentions. However, reason still remained with her, and she could not betray the trust that Luthien had placed in her, nor could she dally with someone so young. And yet…she liked the way his voice would join hers in song, and the way he would hold her hand, and even the way he would stubbornly pull out the clips from her hair.

“You were aptly named, for I have come across the fairest flower I have ever seen, your white skin shimmering in the light of the moon.” The admiring voice, which belonged to the object of her thoughts, jolted her into awareness.

“You flatter me, _hir-neth_ ,” she said playfully.

Dior smiled as he sat next to her. “I am not so little that I cannot appreciate beauty.”

She smiled in response. “And what would a young boy know of beauty when he has rarely been off this isle?”

His gaze turned intense. “Must I cross all of Middle Earth to learn what is beautiful? The trees around me, the waterfall, are they not beautiful?”

“Well, yes, they are,” she admitted.

“Then why must I be worldly to know what – and whom – is beautiful?”

Nimloth grew uncomfortable from the heat of his gaze. “Dior, there are many women in the world.”

He shook his head. “I cannot believe that there is anyone better than you.”

She bit her lip as frustration welled within her. Dior was far too young for her, and as someone who had cared for him since his infancy, she could not allow this infatuation to continue. “You mother-”

Dior cut her off. “I have spoken to my mother and father on this matter, and they do not disapprove.”

Nimloth’s eyes widened. “But…I disapprove. Dior, you are too young. You are only twenty years under the sun while I am far older. Besides, I have cared for you since birth. ‘Tis a different love you bear for me. You are only confused.”

“My mother was born centuries before my father. And do not tell me what manner of love I bear for you.” He looked away angrily. “I am young in the accounting of the Quendi, but in man years I am considered an adult, one who is considered old enough to take a bride.” He took a deep breath and looked back at her. “Nimloth, when you are near, I feel exhilarated and yet also at peace.”

“You have met very few women,” she maintained stubbornly.

“Then how many women should I meet before I know whom I love? Tell me, is there a set number? Perhaps a set number of kisses as well?” He reached over and stroked her cheek, leaving a trail of fire down her face, and when he reached her lips, he hesitated though his eyes lit on fire, Nimloth, realizing how dangerous the situation was becoming, suddenly ended all contact and turned away.

She stood and smoothed her dress. “I am going to seek my bed, and I advise you to do the same. Tomorrow, you shall see that this is a passing flight of fancy.”

Dior watched as she walked away, the line of his mouth set stubbornly.

 

_Year 502 of the First Age – Doriath_

The throne room was empty save for four Elves. Melian occupied her customary seat, with Mablung standing next to her. In front of her was Thingol, dressed in courtly finery as he lay on his funeral bier. His body had been washed, and in a few moments, the honor guard would come to take the body to the forests, where the king would be buried in the woods he so dearly loved.

Standing further away was Celeborn, who had arrived at Doriath to discover that his king had been slain by dwarves.

Melian had not uttered a single word since Celeborn’s arrival. Mablung had haltingly told him what had transpired. “The queen has asked me to send news to Beren and Luthien,” he had finally said.

_She plans on leaving_ , thought Celeborn hollowly. _Her husband is gone, and now she has no purpose. Are we not purpose enough?_ As if reading his thoughts, Melian gazed at him, sorrow and apologies swimming in her eyes.

“Forgive me,” she said, her voice sounding pitifully weak in the immense throne room. “I am not strong enough. Though I am Maia, Elu has always been stronger than I. I cannot hold back the shadow any longer, not without him.”

“But you can try!” Celeborn looked at Mablung pleadingly in support, but the warden shook his head in sadness. “Already the wards are failing, and soon, Doriath shall lay open to its enemies. That which we love shall be doomed.”

Melian looked at her husband’s body. “It is not within my abilities to hold back doom, Celeborn. Doriath has its own fate, one which no one can change.” Her eyes watered. “It is time I make my way back to Valinor.”

“So you will leave and abandon your home.” Celeborn’s voice grew flat.

“I cannot stay here, not now.” She had never sounded so tired before.

But Celeborn looked steadily at her. “You are Queen of Doriath. Where else would you be?”

To that, she did not answer.

  
After Thingol’s funeral, Celeborn headed straight for the hilltop where he had spent so many years in peaceful meditation and relaxation. Tomorrow would bring war councils and meetings. From tomorrow, Doriath would be on its own. Its defense would rest upon the people, Celeborn among them. Galathil was already at the main garrison, but Celeborn remained behind as he attempted to shoulder some of the Thingol’s responsibilities.

Luthien’s son was now king of Doriath, but until he arrived, daily governance would be in his hands. Melian was fading by the hour, and though Celeborn regretted his harsh words with her this morning, he could not help feeling disappointed. The love between Melian and Thingol had been great, but now it was crippling the queen.

Restless, he turned around and went towards the gardens, where he knew Galadriel to be. She had accompanied him back to Doriath, but when she had discovered that the Silmaril had led to Thingol’s death, she had fled from him.

He found her now, sitting dully on that same bench she would always sit upon when she was upset. “Your uncle’s Silmaril has started to wreck havoc here as well.”

She flinched but did not respond. He continued, “I saw the Silmaril once, from a distance. I should never wish to see it up close, else I become afflicted with the same madness that infects everyone else.”

“I would not wish you to be near any jewels he crafted,” she said softly.

“Galadriel?” he asked softly.

She looked at him questioningly.

He reached forward and pulled out the Elessar. “You do not heed your own warnings?”

She kept her eyes downcast. Clearly, she would not speak of this. She was as mule-headed as all her Noldo kin, but then, he had his own share of obstinacy.

“Even for one such as you, there is hesitant, and there is ridiculous,” he finally said with all the bluntness he knew Galadriel never confronted herself with. “And I think that deep down in your heart, you revel in the anger and bitterness you feel. You welcome it. This battle is so normal to you that it does not even seem you have been doing it.”

Galadriel turned and gaped at him, so surprised she was at Celeborn, who calmly sat next to her, as if he had just asked her the time. “Ever since I met you, you have had ‘property’ written all over you.”

“Property of who?” she asked sharply.

“Darkness? Morgoth? Fëanor? All three, I suppose.”

Yet she still murmured, in the softest of whispers because she knew Celeborn’s ears would hear, “I am not anyone’s property,” because he would understand what she meant, and more importantly, what she had not meant.

Celeborn’s heart lifted in hope as he looked straight at her, uncomfortably straight, as, “It is time for you to move on, Galadriel. Say goodbye to Fëanor.”

The minutes ticked by, each one more deafening than the last. “Preposterous,” she said scornfully. “Why look for meaning when there is none?

“It is preposterous,” he admitted. “But then so are the circumstances. You loved him and hated him – will you take this to the grave?”

“So sure are you, that I will die?” she asked him, her eyes daring him to say otherwise.

“Lady, we all face death. But should you continue in this fashion, be assured of yours.” He kept his eyes hard, for he knew that showing pity would be the wrong step. Instead, he boiled with self-righteous anger at the idea that Galadriel considered him, a mere dark Elf, not capable of understanding. But the sharp retort died in his throat when he saw the anguish carefully hidden by those bright eyes he had always secretly admired.

“How can I explain to you why I think and do the things that I do?” she finally said. “I do not know how to make you understand…why I cannot let go of Fëanor without forgiving him.”

“Then forgive him,” said Celeborn simply.

“He was a murderer of your own people.” Galadriel’s voice rose as she continued. “He was a liar, an abuser of trust. He has hurt you and yours. And now you think him deserving of forgiveness?”

She was trying to answer his question without really answering, and he would not allow that. “There are many here who do not think you worthy of the forgiveness offered to you by Thingol and his Queen. And yet I found it within myself to forgive you for your crimes – which, as you keep reminding me, are many.”

The anger seemed to leave her as she absorbed his harsh rebuttal. “I cannot forgive Fëanor without forgiving myself.” She spoke softly, her posture one of defeat.

She had never been so honest with him, and now she submitted herself wholly to his judgment. How deeply she must regard him to admit that she, who sought forgiveness in no one, feared her own. Celeborn’s affection for her grew greater in this very moment.

“Celeborn, I may never be able to forgive myself. I kept valuable information from Fingolfin on Araman because I was too busy trying to play the game of politics. I put Fëanor’s interests above those of my father’s. I have willingly deceived your king, your people, and most of all, you.” She gazed at him intently. “Knowing this, why do you continue to suffer my presence? Why are you trying to understand the burdens I bear?”

He almost said, _Because I love you_. Wisely, he did not say so. “We share a bed, but more importantly, we share a friendship that goes back for many years. Why should I not try to understand?”

She was once again silent – but silence was better than lying, which she had promised not to do.

 

_Year 504 of the First Age – Outskirts of Doriath_

“I am asking you to reconsider.” Artanis splayed her hands on the makeshift table. “You will gain nothing from this.”

Maedhros looked at her tiredly. In fact, that was the only expression she had seen on his face since arriving at his makeshift camp. “Artanis-”

Celegorm interrupted. “We will gain our inheritance back,” he snapped. “Your King Dior has refused to give the Silmaril back to its rightful owners.”

“So you will undertake another Kinslaying?”

He sneered at her. “We have warned him. He all but asks for it.”  
Although she privately agreed, she could hardly say so. She turned back to Maedhros. “And you agreed to Celegorm’s nonsense?”

“Artanis-”

Except now Caranthir interrupted. “Does your lover know where you are?” Only he could say the word lover so maliciously.

“No, he does not,” she admitted. She had been in one of Doriath’s outer villages, where she had been encouraging people to go west, towards the shore. Celeborn was with reviewing defenses in Menegroth, and though he had been unhappy that she was exposing herself to danger, he had not tried to stop her.

She was supposed to have returned to Menegroth yesterday, but one of the villagers had reported seeing dark-haired warriors a few leagues away. After convincing the villager that he had most likely seen a wandering tribe of Avari, she decided to find them herself. For she knew exactly who these dark-haired warriors were and had in fact been expecting them ever since Dior refused to hand over the Silmaril.

“He would grow quite angry if he knew you were consorting with us once more.” She flinched at this reminder.

“He knows that I no longer hold allegiance to your House.”

Caranthir wrapped an unfriendly arm around her shoulders. “Allegiances once changed can change again,” he reminded her softly, dangerously.

Maedhros raised his hand. “Enough. Celegorm, Caranthir, leave us in peace.” The two brothers smiled coldly at their cousin before departing. “Artanis, you should not be here. At least if you had not come, you could have claimed ignorance.”

“I had to try.”

He regarded her silently for a few moments, this woman who was once a sister to him, the one woman other than his mother whom he had allowed near. “It bothers you, does it not? That all your brothers are dead, and so are Fingon and Aredhel, and yet all of us still live.”

Her eyes caressed his beloved face. “I cannot deny it. But all of you have lived so long in the presence of extreme danger that you now misjudge a change in its intensity.”

“That is only a good thing.” He lifted his hand and took a hold of hers. “How evil you must think I am.”

“Maedhros…”

He smiled cynically. “Do you know what we have planned for Doriath?”

"No," answered Artanis flatly. "I do not. Nor I do wish to know. I need to get through this with my ignorance intact. Otherwise, I shall lose everything."

“We used to dream together, you and I, of the beautiful lands that we would rule. Remember when we spoke of going over the mountains, beyond Beleriand?”

She nodded. “They were such wonderful dreams.”

Maedhros released her hand. “I will never be able to fulfill them, Artanis. But as long as you remember, as long as your heart beats with that passion, that dream cannot die.” He gazed at her for a few moments. “I want you to promise me that you will go east. I want to know that you will leave Beleriand when you are able. It is bad enough that my father’s dreams have ruined the dreams of his sons. But I will not let him ruin yours.”

“Do you regret…?”

His eyes gleamed in memory. “No. For regret is dangerous because it gives rise to hope, and in times such as these, these sentiments can corrode a person like poison on an open wound.”

“But how long can you continue like this?” She clenched her hands in frustration. “Maedhros, _please_. You cannot keep doing this alone.”

She was not talking about the Oath, and he loved her all the more for it. His gray eyes filled with resolve. “But far worse, though, to stop fighting completely.”

 

She left his tent more depressed than ever. The Sons of Fëanor were about to attack Doriath, and she could not even warn them. Already Curufin and the twins had gone south to assail Menegroth from the north, and Maglor was waiting in the east for Caranthir. But even if she could get to Menegroth in time, what could she tell them? _Whether you tell them to flee or tell them to fight, it matters not. No matter where they go or how prepared they are, they cannot stand long against our wrath,_ Caranthir had proclaimed.

Caranthir approached her now, the reins of her horse in his hands. “I will escort you as far as I am able, Artanis.”

“Why?” she asked. “Are you going to do away with me too?”  
He laughed. “If it were up to me personally, yes. But Maedhros will not allow any harm to befall you. Besides, I quite enjoy your company.” He lifted her onto to her horse and then mounted his own. “But there is something I want to tell you.” She looked at him as dread filled the pit of her stomach. “We have intercepted the patrol routes of Doriath’s guard. I myself am leading a very special ambush tomorrow.”

“And why is it so special?” she asked steadily.

“Because, your lover’s brother will be in this patrol.”

Artanis gazed at her cousin in horror. “Caranthir, you cannot! Galathil is my cousin, and he has a wife and daughter and grandchildren.”

Caranthir continued on as if he had not heard her. “He will be riding with a small company, and he is already too far from the main garrison for him to send for help – or to be warned.”

“And why do you tell me this?”

He smiled at her in the way he knew she hated. “Celeborn would not have taken you,” and here he flicked a disdainful glance at the bracelet on her wrist, “without your pledge of loyalty – and honesty. How do you think he will feel when he discovers that you came here for whatever reason and were told of the impending massacre of his brother’s company?” His eyes grew even colder. “And he will know that I killed his brother because of you.”

“What have I done to earn such hate from you?” Artanis looked at him, the hopelessness of the situation becoming clearer by the moment.

“Because you are the only one who has survived my father’s tarnished dreams. You were my father’s daughter at heart, and yet you did not take the Oath with us, as was your duty to him. You wear his jewel on your breast, and yet you dare tell us to give up ours. So if you are going to survive this war – and I rather think you will – I want you to endure the shame of it.”

  
_Two Days Later – Menegroth_

The Sons of Fëanor had made good on their promise and gave exactly what his refusal had asked for. But, reflected Artanis as she stood above Caranthir’s body, they had not gotten what they wanted. The Silmaril was missing, for it had been taken away by a group of survivors, among them Nimloth’s daughter Elwing. Nimloth’s sons were lost in the woods, and even now Maedhros continued searching for them.

Celeborn and his remaining warriors had gone with the survivors to give them as much protection as they were able. But Artanis knew that whatever safety they found would not last long, for the sons of Fëanor, having already committed two Kinslayings, would now have no compunction about committing a third, and even more, until they got what they wanted – or until death took them.

Three were already dead. Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir. Only four sons left. But between them, eight hands to shed more blood.

“Artanis, why are you still here?” It was Maglor, his own helm blood streaked. “I thought you would have left with Celeborn.”

“He did not want me.” She sounded so young and lost that Maglor was taken back to the Valinor, on the day when a young swan princess had soundly trounced Caranthir in Finwë’s courtyard.

Maglor moved to embrace her, but he found that he could not. They stood in the middle of the slaughter, slaughter that he had helped created.

“I wish I had not sought your brother earlier.”

“At least you awoke with the battle nearly over.”

She rubbed her eyes tiredly. “At least you spared me from having to choose.”

“Choose what?” Pretending ignorance, he bent down and lifted his brother in his arms.

“If I had come any earlier, I would have had to lift a sword against you.” Her eyes glimmered. “And as much as I hate you now, at least you offered me that one comfort.”

She turned away from him blindly and walked away.

  
_She had arrived at Doriath just as the attack began. Celeborn, too busy to ask questions, directed her towards Menegroth’s southern walls where she could usher survivors to safety. And when the walls were breached, she had reluctantly pulled out her sword. But before she could strike anyone, she saw Maglor’s face._

_The last thing she remembered was the flat of his sword hitting her head._

_She had come back to consciousness near the end of the battle. Having no idea how long she had been unconscious, she stood carefully as the pounding returned to her head._

_She saw dark haired warriors search for survivors and possible prisoners. In a few places, some remaining Sindar offered some token resistance, but it was not enough._

_Doriath had been sacked._

_Where was Celeborn? She was not sure if she should make her presence known. No one would know what side she was on, and to be honest, she was not entirely sure either. There was still that tiny, treacherous part of her that could not commit to the Sindar completely._

_In the end, it was Celeborn who had found her. He had been secretly ferreting out survivors into the woods, but at the sight of her, he crossed over to her immediately._

_He was angry._

_He knew._

_“You went to them, even after all you promised me. Caranthir told me that you knew of my brother’s slaughter. Before he died, he said you knew! Why did you not tell me when you arrived?” He was shouting at her now, his sword leveled at her._

_“So you could go after him and die yourself?”_

_“So then I would have died,” he said angrily. “He was my brother. Brothers protect each other, Artanis. Or did you not know that?”_

_She shook her head, the headache and his forceful voice causing her to sway. “Celeborn, you must understand…”_

_He sneered. “Understand what? That you choose them over me?” He looked away, as if the very sight of her repulsed him. “I would kill you now, but I am no Kinslayer.”_

_“It was not supposed to be this way,” she said weakly. If only she could tell him that she had feared for his safety, that if she had told him, he would have gone after Galathil, thereby abandoning his duties at Menegroth and falling into whatever trap Caranthir laid for him._

_“I will not share you with anyone, including your dead uncle and his twisted designs.”_

_She grew pale. “You are unjust.”_

_“Am I? I thought I could win you from him. But you cannot let go of him. But it was a fool’s errand on my part. You hold on to him every time you hide something from me, every time you lie to me.” Celeborn looked betrayed. “By the Valar, I wish we had never met.” Such loathing filled his voice as he spoke those words unthinkingly._

_“Do you?” Galadriel’s eyes were fixed on his with an almost aching intensity._

_“Sometimes…when…sometimes,” he said slowly. When he found himself loving her, and then he would remember her dishonesty, the use to which she could put her beauty and passion – that was when he wished they had never met. And that knowledge was never far from the surface, however hard he had tried to bury it._

_He turned and disappeared into the woods._

_Galadriel stood alone, the tears now flowing down her face freely. If they had never met, they both would have been spared this hurt. But if they had never met, she would have missed…much more._

 

_Year 510 of the First Age – Gondolin_

Glorfindel felt the agony of his hair being pulled from his head. He was in such intense agony that he was strangely distance himself from it. As he fell, he thought back to the carnage he had left behind him and foresaw the carnage ahead. A sense of foreboding filled him, and he knew, he _knew_ , that this war was greater than anyone, both him and the balrog, and just like it had taken the balrog, it was now taking him as well, and would turn them into the same dust.

 

 

Chapter Notes:

\- Loriel (1) – Dream-maiden  
\- Adanedhel (2) – Elf-Man, one of Turin’s many names.  
\- Lanthir Lamath (3) – the waterfall that inspired Elwing’s name, “Star-spray.”  
\- Aranel (4) – One of Dior’s names, it refers to his beauty.  
\- Hir-neth (5) – Sindarin – “little lord”


End file.
